*:* 


AUTUMN   LEAYES. 


ORIGINAL    PIECES 


IN 


PROSE    AND    VERSE. 


'  Our  wits  are  so  diversely  colored."  — SHAKESPEARE. 


CAMBRIDGE: 

JOHN     BARTLETT. 

1853. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1853,  by 

JOHN   BARTLETT, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF  AND  COMPANY,  PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


NOTE. 


THE  pieces  gathered  into  this  volume  were,  with 
two  exceptions,  written  for  the  entertainment  of  a 
private  circle,  without  any  view  to  publication.  The 
editor  would  express  her  thanks  to  the  writers,  who, 
at  her  solicitation,  have  allowed  them  to  be  printed. 
They  are  published  with  the  hope  of  aiding  a  work 
of  charity,  —  the  establishment  of  an  Agency  for  the 
benefit  of  the  poor  in  Cambridge,  —  to  which  the 
proceeds  of  the  sale  will  be  devoted. 

ANNE  W.  ABBOT. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHRISTMAS  REVIVED 1 

IN  THE  CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE.    A  LEGEND  OF 

LADY  LEE.  — H.  W.  L 11 

THE  LITTLE  SOUTH- WIND           13 

LINES   WRITTEN  AT   THE  CLOSE   OP  DR.  HOLMES'8  LEC 
TURES  ON  ENGLISH  POETRY          .        .        .        .  16 

AUNT  MOLLY.    A  REMINISCENCE  OF  OLD  CAMBRIDGE  22 

THE  SOUNDS  OF  MORNING  IN  CAMBRIDGE        .       .  30 

THE  SOUNDS  OF  EVENING  IN  CAMBRIDGE     ...  35 

To  THE  NEAR-SIGHTED 41 

FLOWERS  FROM  A  STUDENT'S  WALKS     ....  48 

MISERIES.    No.  1. 52 

"         No.  2.    A  DARK  NIGHT        ....  57 

"          No.  3.     TWINE 62 

"         No.  4.    FRESH  AIB 67 

FAREWELL                              .  74 


VI  CONTENTS. 

INNOCENT  SURPRISES 77 

THE  OLD  SAILOR 81 

LAUGHTER 91 

To  STEPHEN 95 

THE  OLD  CHURCH 98 

"SOMETHING  THAN  BEAUTY  DEARER"        .        .        .  104 

A  TALE  FOUND  IN  THE  KEPOSITORIES  OF  THE  ABBOTS 

OF  THE  MIDDLE  AGES 106 

THE  SEA 115 

FASHION 119 

A  GROWL 123 

To  JENNY  LIND 128 

MY  HERBARIUM 130 

THE  OSTRICH 138 

Cows 142 

THE  HOME-BEACON 146 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY 153 

FROM  THE  PAPERS  OF  REGINALD  RATCLIFFE,  ESQ.  158 


AUTUMN    LEAVES. 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 


IT  was  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  last 
Thursday  (Christmas  morning),  when  Nathan 
Stoddard,  a  young  saddler,  strode  through  the 
vacant  streets  of  one  of  our  New  England  towns, 
hastening  to  begin  his  work.  The  town  is  an 
old-fashioned  one,  and  although  the  observance 
of  the  ancient  church  festival  is  no  longer 
frowned  upon,  as  in  years  past,  yet  it  has  been 
little  regarded,  especially  in  the  church  of  which 
Nathan  is  a  member.  As  the  saddler  mounted  the 
steps  of  his  shop,  he  felt  the  blood  so  rush  along 
his  limbs,  and  tingle  in  his  fingers,  that  he  could 
not  forbear  standing  without  the  door  for  a  mo 
ment,  as  if  to  enjoy  the  triumph  of  the  warmth 
within  him  over  the  cold  morning  air.  The  lit 
tle  stone  church  which  Nathan  attends  stands  in 
the  same  square  with  his  shop,  and  nearly  oppo- 
1 


A  CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 

site.  It  was  closed,  as  usual  on  Christmas  day, 
and  a  recent  snow  had  heaped  the  steps  and 
roof,  and  loaded  the  windows.  Nathan  thought 
that  it  looked  uncommonly  beautiful  in  the 
softening  twilight  of  the  morning. 

While  Nathan  stood  musing,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  church,  he  became  suddenly  con 
scious  that  another  figure  had  entered  the  square 
upon  the  opposite  side,  and  was  walking  hastily 
along.  He  turned  his  eyes  upon  it,  and  was 
greatly  surprised  by  its  appearance.  He  saw 
a  tall  old  man,  although  a  good  deal  stoop 
ing,  with  long,  straight,  and  very  white  hair  fall 
ing  over  his  shoulders,  which  was  the  more  con 
spicuous  from  the  black  velvet  cap,  as  it  ap 
peared,  that  he  wore,  and  the  close-fitting  suit 
of  pure  black  in  which  he  was  dressed,  and 
which  seemed  to  Nathan  almost  to  glisten  and 
flash  as  the  old  man  tripped  along.  He  had 
hardly  begun  to  speculate  as  to  who  the  stranger 
could  be,  when  he  beheld  him  turn  in  between 
the  posts  by  the  path  that  leads  to  the  church, 
tread  lightly  over  the  snow,  and  up  the  step's, 
and  knock  hastily  and  vigorously  at  the  church- 
door.  But  half  recovered  from  his  wonder,  he 
was  just  raising  his  voice  to  utter  a  remon- 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED.  3 

strance,  when,  to  his  sevenfold  amazement,  the 
door  was  opened  to  the  knock,  and  the  old  man 
disappeared  within. 

It  was  not  without  a  creeping  feeling  of  awe, 
mingled  with  his  astonishment,  that  Nathan 
gazed  upon  the  door  through  which  this  silent 
figure  had  vanished.  But  he  was  not  easily  to 
be  daunted.  He  did  not  care  to  follow  the  steps 
of  the  stranger  into  the  church ;  but  he  remem 
bered  a  shed  so  placed  against  the  building,  near 
the  farther  end,  that  he  had  often,  when  a  child, 
at  some  peril  indeed,  climbed  upon  its  top,  and 
looked  into  the  church  through  a  little  window 
at  one  side  of  the  pulpit.  For  this  he  started ; 
but  he  did  not  fail  to  run  across  the  square  and 
leap  over  the  church-gate  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
in  order  to  gather  warmth  and  courage  for  the 
attempt. 

When  Nathan  Stoddard  climbed  upon  the  old 
shed  and  pressed  his  face  against  the  glass  of 
the  little  church-window,  he  had  at  first  only  a 
confused  impression  of  many  lamps  and  many 
figures  in  all  parts  of  the  church.  But  as  his 
vision  grew  more  clear,  he  beheld  a  sight  which 
could  not  amaze  him  less  than  the  apparition 
that  startled  Tam*o'  Shanter  as  he  glared  through 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 


the  darkness  into  the  old  Kirk  of  Alloway.  The 
great  chandelier  of  the  church  was  partly  light 
ed,  and  there  were,  besides,  many  candles  and 
lanterns  burning  in  different  parts  of  the  room, 
and  casting  their  light  upon  a  large  party  of 
young  men  and  women,  who  were  dressed  in 
breeches  and  ruffled  shirts,  and  hooped  petti 
coats  and  towering  head-dresses,  such  as  he  had 
only  seen  in  old  pictures.  They  were  mounted 
upon  benches  and  ladders,  and  boards  laid  along 
the  tops  of  the  pews,  and  were  apparently  just 
completing  the  decoration  of  the  church,  which 
was  already  dressed  with  green,  with  little  trees 
in  the  corners,  and  with  green  letters  upon  the 
walls,  and  great  wreaths  about  the  pillars.  The 
whole  party  appeared  full  of  life  and  cheerful 
ness,  while  the  old  man  whom  Nathan  had  seen 
enter  stood  near  the  door,  looking  quietly  on, 
with  a  little  girl  holding  his  hand. 

It  was  not  until  Nathan  Stoddard  had  looked 
for  some  little  time  upon  this  spectacle  that  he 
began  to  feel  that  he  was  witness  of  any  thing 
more  than  natural.  The  whole  party  had  so 
home-like  an  air,  and  appeared  so  engaged  with 
their  pleasant  occupation,  that,  notwithstanding 
their  quaint  dress,  Nathan  cfhly  thought  how 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 

much  he  should  like  to  share  their  company. 
But  the  more  he  studied  their  faces,  the  more  he 
was  filled,  for  all  their  appearance  of  youth  and 
their  simple  manners,  with  a  strange  sort  of 
veneration.  The  sweet  and  cheerful  faces  of  the 
young  women  seemed  to  grow  awfully  calm 
and  beautiful  as  they  brought  their  task  to  a 
close,  and  their  foreheads,  with  the  hair  brought 
back  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  to  become  more 
and  more  serene  and  high.  There  was  a  strange 
beauty,  too,  about  the  old  man's  face.  He  ap 
peared  to  Nathan  as  if  he  felt  that  the  group 
before  him  only  waited  his  command  to  fade 
away  in  the  morning  light  that  struggled  among 
the  candles,  but  he  could  not  bear  to  give  the 
word ;  and  so  they  kept  playing  with  the  fes 
toons,  and  stepping  about  the  pews  to  please 
him.  Nathan  felt  a  cold  thrill,  partly  from 
pleasure,  and  partly  from  awe,  running  up  his 
back,  and  a  strong  pain  across  his  forehead,  sel 
dom  known  to  one  of  his  temperament.  Again 
and  again  he  drew  his  hand  across  his  brows, 
until  he  felt  that  he  was  near  swooning,  and 
like  to  fall ;  and  he  clung  desperately  to  his  hold. 
When  the  fit  was  over,  he  dared  venture  no 
more,  but  hastened  to  the  ground. 


6  CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 

It  was  no  fear  of  ridicule  or  of  incredulity  that 
led  Nathan  Stoddard  to  keep  secret  what  he  had 
witnessed.  But  it  was  like  some  deep  and  holy 
experience  that  would  lose  its  charm  if  it  were 
spoken  of  to  another.  So  he  went  back  to  his 
shop,  and  sat  looking  upon  the  church,  and 
watching,  almost  with  dread,  the  doves  that 
lighted  upon  its  roof,  and  fluttered  about,  and 
beat  their  wings  against  its  windows. 

The  minister  of  Nathan's  parish  was  a  young 
man  by  the  name  of  Dudley;  and  it  so  hap 
pened  that  he  had  driven  out,  before  light,  on 
the  morning  we  have  spoken  of,  to  visit  a  sick 
man  at  some  distance.  In  returning  home,  he 
had  to  pass  along  the  rather  unfrequented  street 
which  runs  in  the  rear  of  his  church,  and  close 
to  it.  As  he  was  driving  rapidly  along,  his  ear 
caught  what  seemed  the  peal  of  an  organ.  He 
stopped  his  horse  to  listen,  and  a  moment  con 
vinced  him  that  the  sound  both  of  the  instru 
ment  and  of  singing  voices  came  from  his  own 
church  ;  and  it  was  music  of  a  depth  and  beauty 
such  as  he  had  never  before  heard  within  it. 
Filled  with  astonishment,  he  put  his  horse  upon 
its  fastest  trot,  and  drove  round  into  the  square, 
to  the  shop  of  Nathan  Stoddard. 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED.  */ 

"  There  is  music  to-day  in  our  church, 
Nathan ! "  he  cried  to  the  young  saddler. 
"  What  can  it  mean  ?  "  But  Nathan  answered 
not  a  word.  He  caught  the  horse  by  the  head, 
and  fastened  him  to  a  post  before  the  door. 
Then  stepping  to  the  side  of  the  sleigh,  he  said 
to  Mr.  Dudley,  "  Come  with  me,  Sir."  Mr. 
Dudley  looked  upon  the  pale  face  and  trembling 
lips  of  his  parishioner,  and  followed  in  silence. 

Nathan  sprang  upon  the  shed  at  the  side  of 
the  church,  and  scrambled  up  to  the  little  win 
dow.  Mr.  Dudley  followed,  and,  with  Nathan's 
help,  gained  the  same  precarious  foothold. 
"  Look  in,  Sir,"  said  Nathan,  not  venturing  a 
glance  himself.  Mr.  Dudley  looked,  and  had 
not  Nathan's  arm  been  about  his  body  he  would 
have  lost  his  hold,  in  sheer  amazement.  The 
building  was  crowded,  as  he  had  never  known 
it  before;  and  crowded  with  people  whom  his 
eye,  versed  in  the  dress  and  manners  of  our  fore 
fathers,  recognized  as  the  church-goers  of  a  cen 
tury  and  a  half  ago.  The  singers'  gallery  was 
filled  by  a  choir  of  girls  and  boys,  while  his  own 
place  in  the  pulpit  was  occupied  by  a  white- 
haired  figure,  whom  he  recognized  as  the  original 
of  a  portrait  which  he  had  purchased  and  hung 


8  CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 

in  his  parlor  at  home  for  its  singular  beauty.  It 
was  said  to  be  a  portrait  of  a  minister  in  the 
town,  who  lived  in  the  last  century,  and  is  still 
remembered  for  his  virtues.  The  sight  of  this 
old  man's  face  completely  stilled  the  agitation 
of  the  young  minister.  He  was  leaning  over 
the  great  Bible,  with  his  hands  folded  upon  it, 
and  his  eyes  seemingly  filled  with  tears  of  pleas 
ure  and  gratitude,  and  bent  upon  the  choir.  Mr. 
Dudley  listened  intently,  and  could  catch  what 
seemed  the  words  of  some  old  Christmas  carol : 

"  Thou  mak'st  my  cup  of  joy  run  o'er.'1 

And  he  was  so  rapt  with  the  sights  and  the 
sounds  within,  that  it  needed  all  Nathan's  en 
deavors  to  uphold  him. 

By  this  time  the  sound  of  a  gathering  crowd 
below,  which  he  had  not  heeded  at  first,  was 
forced  more  and  more  upon  his  notice  ;  and  the 
anxious  voice  of  his  oldest  deacon  calling,  "  Mr. 
Dudley !  Mr.  Dudley ! "  rose  high  and  loud  ; 
while  a  great  thundering  at  the  front  door  of  the 
church  announced  that  the  people  below  had 
also  caught  the  sound  of  the  music,  and  were 
clamorous  for  admission.  Mr.  Dudley  hastened 
round  to  prevent  their  causing  any  disturbance 


CHRISTMAS    REVIVED.  9 

to  the  congregation  within ;  but  he  came  only 
in  time  to  see  the  door  burst  open,  and  to  be 
borne  in  with  the  crowd.  All  gazed  about  in 
wonder.  The  congregation,  indeed,  were  gone, 
and  the  preacher,  and  the  choir ;  and  the  room 
was  cold.  Bat  there  was  a  great  green  cross 
over  the  pulpit,  and  words  along  the  walls,  and 
festoons  upon  the  galleries,  and  great  wreaths, 
like  vast  green  serpents,  coiled  about  the  cold 
pillars.  The  church  of  the  Orthodox  parish  of 

had  been  fairly  dressed  for  Christmas  by 

spirit  hands. 

When  Mr.  Dudley  reached  his  home,  after  the 
wonder  had  in  part  spent  itself,  he  found  that 
an  enormous  Christmas  pie  had  been  left  at  his 
door  by  a  white-haired  old  man  dressed  in  black, 
about  six  in  the  morning,  just  after  he  had  gone 
to  visit  his  sick  parishioner.  The  girl  who  re 
ceived  it  reported  the  old  man  as  saying,  in  a 
tremulous,  but  very  kind  voice,  "  Give  your 
master  the  Christmas  blessing  of  an  old  Puritan 
minister."  How  the  meaning  of  this  message 
would  have  been  known  to  Mr.  Dudley,  had  not 
the  events  we  have  told  disclosed  it,  who  can 
say? 

Need  I  add,  that  my  friend,  Mr.  Dudley,  from 


10  CHRISTMAS    REVIVED. 

whose  lips  I  have  taken  down  the  above  narra 
tive,  has  directed  the  decorations  to  remain  in 
his  church  during  the  coming  month,  and  that 
he  avows  the  intention  of  observing  the  Christ 
mas  of  the  following  year  with  public  services, 
unless,  indeed,  he  should  be  anticipated  by  his 
ancient  predecessor.  It  may  not  be  impertinent 
to  observe,  that  I  am  invited  to  dine  and  spend 
the  day  with  the  Dudleys  on  that  occasion,  and  I 
shall  not  fail  to  make  an  accurate  report  of  what 
ever  glimpse  I  may  obtain  into  the  mysterious 
ceremonies  of  a  Puritan  Christinas. 


IN  THE   CHURCHYARD  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 


A  LEGEND  OF  LADY  LEE. 


IN  the  village  churchyard  she  lies, 
Dust  is  in  her  beautiful  eyes, 

No  more  she  breathes,  nor  feels,  nor  stirs  ; 
At  her  feet  and  at  her  head 
Lies  a  slave  to  attend  the  dead, 

But  their  dflst  is  white  as  hers. 

Was  she,  a  lady  of  high  degree, 
So  much  in  love  with  the  vanity 

And  foolish  pomp  of  this  world  of  ours? 
Or  was  it  Christian  charity, 
And  lowliness  and  humility, 

The  richest  and  rarest  of  all  dowers  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  ?     No  one  speaks  ; 
No  color  shoots  into  those  cheeks, 
Either  of  anger  or  of  pride, 


12  IN    THE    CHURCHYARD    AT    CAMBRIDGE. 

At  the  rude  question  we  have  asked  ;  — 
Nor  will  the  mystery  be  unmasked 
By  those  who  are  sleeping  at  her  side. 

Hereafter  ?  —  And  do  you  think  to  look 
On  the  terrible  pages  of  that  Book 

To  find  her  failings,  faults,  and  errors  ? 
Ah,  you  will  then  have  other  cares, 
In  your  own  short-comings  and  despairs, 

In  your  own  secret  sins  and  terrors  ! 

H.  TV.  L. 


THE   LITTLE    SOUTH-WIND. 


THE  little  south-wind  had  been  shut  up  for 
many  days,  while  his  cousin  from  the  northeast 
had  been  abroad,  and  the  clouds  had  been  heavy 
and  dark ;  but  now  all  was  bright  and  clear,  and 
the  little  south-wind  was  to  have  a  holiday. 
O,  how  happy  he  would  be !  He  sallied  forth 
to  amuse  himself; —  and  hear  what  he  did.  He 
came  whistling  down  the  chimney,  until  the 
nervous  old  lady  was  ready  to  fly  with  vexation : 
then  away  he  flew,  laughing  in  triumph,  —  the 
naughty  south-wind!1  He  played  with  the 
maiden's  work:  away  the  pieces  flew,  some 
here,  some  there,  and  away  ran  the  maiden  after. 
What  cared  she  for  the  wind  ?  She  tossed  back 
her  curls  and  laughed  merrily,  and  the  wind 
laughed  merrily  too,  —  the  silly  south-wind! 
Onward  he  stole,  and  lifting  the  curtain,  —  curi- 


14  THE    LITTLE    SOUTH-WIND. 

ous  south-wind !  —  what  did  he  see  ?  On  the 
sofa  lay  a  young  man :  a  heavy  book  was  in  his 
hand.  The  little  south-wind  rustled  through 
the  leaves,  but  the  young  man  stirred  not ;  he 
was  asleep;  hot  and  weary,  he  slept.  The 
wind  fanned  his  brow  awhile,  lifted  his  dark 
locks,  and,  leaving  a  kiss  behind,  stole  out  at  the 
casement,  —  the  gentle  south-wind!  Then  he 
met  a  little  child :  away  he  whirled  the  little 
boy's  hat,  away  ran  the  child,  but  his  little  feet 
were  tired,  and  he  wept,  —  poor  child!  The 
wind  looked  back,  and  felt  sad,  then  hung  the 
hat  on  a  bush,  and  went  on.  He  had  played 
too  hard,  —  the  thoughtless  south-wind !  A  sick 
child  lay  tossing  to  and  fro :  its  hands  and  face 
were  hot  and  dry.  The  mother  raised  the  win 
dow.  The  wind  heard  her  as  he  was  creeping 
by,  and  stepping  in,  he  cooled  the  burning  face  : 
then,  playing  among  the  flowers  until  their  fra 
grance  filled  the  room,  away  he  flew,  —  the  kind 
south-wind !  He  went  out  into  the  highway, 
and  played  with  the  dust;  but  that  was  not  so 
pleasant,  and  onward  he  sped  to  the  meadow. 
The  dust  could  not  follow  on  the  green  grass, 
and  the  little  south-wind  soon  outstripped  it, 
and  onward  and  onward  he  sped,  over  mountain 


THE    LITTLE    SOUTH-WIND. 


15 


and  valley,  dancing  among  the  flowers,  and 
frolicking  round,  until  the  trees  lifted  up  their 
arms  and  bent  their  heads  and  shook  their  sides 
with  glee,  —  the  happy  south-wind!  At  last  he 
came  to  a  quiet  dell,  where  a  little  brook  lay, 
just  stirring  among  his  white  pebbles.  The 
wind  said,  "  Kind  brook,  will  you  play  with 
me  ?  "  And  the  brook  answered  with  a  sparkling 
smile,  and  a  gentle  murmur.  Then  the  wind 
rose  up,  and,  sporting  among  the  dark  pines, 
whistled  and  sung  through  the  lofty  branches, 
while  the  pretty  brook  danced  along,  and 
warbled  songs  to  the  music  of  its  merry  com 
panion, —  the  merry  south-wind!  But  the  sun 
had  gone  down  and  the  stars  were  peeping 
forth,  and  the  day  was  done.  The  happy  south- 
wind  was  still,  and  the  rnoon  looked  down  on 
the  world  below,  and  watched  among  the  trees 
and  hills,  but  all  was  still :  the  little  south-wind 
slumbered,  and  the  moon  and  the  stars  kept 
guard,  —  poor,  tired  south-wind !  Old  lady  and 
maiden,  young  man  and  child,  the  dust  and  the 
flowers,  were  forgotten,  and  he  slept,  —  dear 
little  south- wind! 

• 


LINES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  DR.  HOLMES'S  LECTURES  ON 
ENGLISH   POETRY.* 


FAREWELL  !  farewell!     The  hours  we  've  stolen 
From  scenes  of  worldly  strife  and  stir, 

To  live  with  poets,  and  with  thee, 
Their  brother  and  interpreter, 

Have  brought  us  wealth  ;  —  as  thou  hast  reaped, 

We  have  not  followed  thee  in  vain, 
But  gathered,  in  one  precious  sheaf, 

The  pearly  flower  and  golden  grain. 

*  The  Poets  are  metaphorically  introduced  as  follows.  ROG 
ERS,  The  Beech ;—  CAMPBELL,  The  Fir;  —  BYRON,  The  Oak; 
—  MOORE,  The  Elm;  —  SCOTT,  The  Cftestnut ;  —  SOUTHET,  The 
Holly ;  —  COLERIDGE,  The  Magnolia ; —  KEATS,  Ttie  Orange;  — 
WORDSWORTH,  The  Pine;  —  TENNYSON,  The  Palm;  —  FELICIA 
HEMANS,  The  Locust;  —  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING, 
The  Laurel. 


DR.    HOLMES'S    LECTURES.  17 

For  twelve  bright  hours,  with  thee  we  walked 

Within  a  magic  garden's  bound, 
Where  trees,  whose  birth  owned  various  climes, 

Beneath  one  sky  were  strangely  found. 

First  in  the  group,  an  ancient  BEECH 

His  shapely  arms  abroad  did  fling, 
Wearing  old  Autumn's  russet  crown 

Among  the  lively  tints  of  Spring. 

Those  pale  brown  leaves  the  winds  of  March 

Made  vocal  'mid  the  silent  trees, 
And  spread  their  faint  perfume  abroad, 

Like  sad,  yet  pleasant  memories. 

Near  it,  the  vigorous,  noble  FIR 
Arose,  with  firm  yet  graceful  mien ; 

Welcome  for  shelter  or  for  shade, 
A  pyramid  of  living  green. 

And  from  the  tender,  vernal  spray 
The  sunny  air  such  fragrance  drew, 

As  breathes  from  fields  of  strawberries  wild, 
All  bathed  in  morning's  freshest  dew. 

The  OAK  his  branches  richly  green 
Broad  to  the  winds  did  wildly  fling  ;  — 
2 


18  DR.    HOLMES'S    LECTURES 

The  first  in  beauty  and  in  power, 
All  bowed  before  the  forest-king. 

But  ere  its  brilliant  leaves  were  sere, 
Or  scattered  by  the  Autumn  wind, 

Fierce  lightnings  struck  its  glories  down, 
And  left  a  blasted  trunk  behind. 

A  youthful  ELM  its  drooping  boughs 
In  graceful  beauty  bent  to  earth, 

As  if  to  touch,  with  reverent  love, 
The  kindly  soil  that  gave  it  birth  ;  — 

And  round  it,  in  such  close  embrace, 
Sweet  honeysuckles  did  entwine, 

We  knew  not  if  the  south  wind  caught 
Its  odorous  breath  from  tree  or  vine. 

The  CHESTNUT  tall,  with  shining  leaves 
And  yellow  tassels  covered  o'er, 

The  sunny  Summer's  golden  pride, 

And  pledge  of  Autumn's  ruddy  store, — 

Though  grander  forms  might  near  it  rise, 
And  sweeter  blossoms  scent  the  air,  — 

Was  still  a  favorite  'mongst  the  trees 
That  flourished  in  that  garden  fair. 


ON    ENGLISH    POETRY.  19 

All  brightly  clad  in  glossy  green, 

And  scarlet  berries  gay  to  see, 
We  welcome  next  a  constant  friend, 

The  brilliant,  cheerful  HOLLY-TREE. 

But  twilight  falls  upon  the  scene  ; 

Rich  odors  fill  the  evening  air  ; 
And,  lighting  up  the  dusky  shades, 

Gleam  the  MAGNOLIA'S  blossoms  fair. 

The  fire-fly,  with  its  fairy  lamp, 

Flashes  within  its  soft  green  bower ; 

The  humming  sphinx  flits  in  and  out, 
To  sip  the  nectar  of  its  flower. 

Now  the  charmed  air,  more  richly  fraught, 

To  steep  our  senses  in  delight, 
Comes  o'er  us,  as  the  ORANGE-TREE 

In  beauty  beams  upon  our  sight ; 

And,  glancing  through  its  emerald  leaves, 
White  buds  and  golden  fruits  are  seen  ; 

Fit  flowers  to  deck  the  bride's  pale  brow, 
Fit  fruit  to  offer  to  a  queen. 

But  let  me  rest  beneath  the  PINE, 
And  listen  to  the  low,  sad  tone 


20  DR.    HOLMES'S    LECTURES 

Its  music  breathes,  that  o'er  my  soul 
Comes  like  the  ocean's  solemn  moan. 

Erect  it  stands  in  graceful  strength  ; 

Its  spire  points  upward  to  the  sky  ; 
And  nestled  in  its  sheltering  arms 

The  birds  of  heaven  securely  lie. 

And  though  no  gaily  painted  bells, 
Nor  odor-bearing  urns,  are  there, 

When  the  west  wind  sighs  through  its  boughs, 
Let  me  inhale  the  balmy  air ! 

The  stately  PALM  in  conscious  pride 

Lifts  its  tall  column  to  the  sky, 
While  round  it  fragrant  air-plants  cling, 

Deep-stained  with  every  gorgeous  dye. 

Linger  with  me  a  moment,  where 
The  LOCUST  trembles  in  the  breeze, 

In  soft,  transparent  verdure  drest, 
Contrasting  with  the  darker  trees. 

The  humming-bird  flies  in  among 

Its  boughs,  with  pure  white  clusters  hung, 

And  honey-bees  come  murmuring,  where 
Its  perfume  on  the  air  is  flung. 


ON    ENGLISH    POETRY.  21 

A  noble  LAUREL  meets  our  gaze, 
Ere  yet  we  leave  these  alleys  green. 

'Mongst  many  stately,  fair,  and  sweet, 
The  DAPHNE  ODORA  stands  a  queen. 

MAY  2,  1853. 


AUNT    MOLLY. 


A  REMINISCENCE  OF  OLD  CAMBRIDGE. 


IN  looking  back  upon  my  early  days,  one  of 
the  images  that  rises  most  vividly  to  my  mind's 

eye  is  that  of  Miss  Molly ,  or  Aunt  Molly, 

as  she  was  called  by  some  of  her  little  favorites, 
that  is  to  say,  about  a  dozen  girls,  and  (not  com 
plimentary  to  the  wwfair  sex,  to  be  sure)  one  boy. 
There  was  one,  who,  even  to  Miss  Molly,  was 
not  a  torment  and  a  plague ;  and  I  must  confess 
he  was  a  pleasant  specimen  of  the  genus.  At 
the  time  of  which  I  speak,  the  great  awkward 
barn  of  a  school-house  on  the  Common,  near  the 
Appian  Way,  had  not  reared  its  imposing  front. 
In  its  place,  in  the  centre  of  a  grass-plot  that 
was  one  of  the  very  first  to  look  green  in  spring, 
and  kept  its  verdure  through  the  heats  of  July, 
stood  the  brown,  one-storied  cottage  which  she 


AUNT    MOLLY.  23 

owned,  and  in  which  the  aged  woman  lived, 
alone.  Her  garden  and  clothes-yard  behind  the 
house  were  fenced  in;  but  in  front,  the  visitor  to 
the  cottage,  unimpeded  by  gate  or  fence,  turned 
up  the  pretty  green  slope  directly  from  the  street 
to  the  lowly  door. 

As  I  have  started  for  a  walk  into  the  old 
times,  and  am  not  bound  by  any  rule  to  stick  to 
the  point,  I  will  here  digress  to  say  that  the 
Episcopal  Church  (the  Church,  as  it  was  simply 
called,  when  all  the  rest  were  "  meeting-houses"), 
that  tells  the  traveller  what  a  pure  and  true  taste 
was  once  present  in  Cambridge,  and,  by  the  con 
trast  it  presents  to  the  architectural  blunders  that 
abound  in  the  place,  tells  also  what  a  want  of  it 
there  is  now,  —  this  beautiful  church  stood  most 
appropriately  and  tastefully  surrounded  by  the 
green  turf,  unbroken  by  stiff  gravel  walks  or 
coach  sweep,  and  undivided  from  the  public 
walk  by  a  fence.  Behind  the  church,  and  form 
ing  a  part  of  i,ts  own  grounds,  (where  now  exist 
the  elegances  of  School  Court,)  was  an  unap 
propriated  field  ;  and  that  spot  was  considered, 
by  a  certain  little  group  of  children,  of  six  or 
seven  years  old,  the  most  solitary,  gloomy,  mys 
terious  place  in  their  little  world.  When  the 


24  AUNT    MOLLY. 

colors  of  sunset  had  died  out  in  the  west,  and 
the  stillness  and  shadow  of  twilight  were  coming 
on,  they  used  to  "  snatch  a  fearful  joy  "  in  seeing 
one  of  their  number  (whose  mother  had  kindly 
omitted  the  first  lesson  usually  taught  to  little 
girls,  to  be  afraid  of  every  thing)  perform  the 
feat  of  going  slowly  around  the  church,  alone, 
stopping  behind  it  to  count  a  hundred.  Her 
wonderful  courage  in  actually  protecting  the 
whole  group  from  what  they  called  a  "  flock  of 
cows,"  and  in  stroking  and  patting  the  "  mad 
dogs"  that  they  were  for  ever  meeting,  was 
nothing  to  this  going  round  the  church  ! 

But  to  return  to  the  cottage,  from  which  the 
pretty,  rural  trait  of  its  standing  in  its  unfenced 
green  door-yard  led  me  away  to  notice  the  same 
sort  of  rustic  beauty  where  the  church  stood. 
We  did  not  stop  to  knock  at  the  outside  door, 
—  for  Aunt  Molly  was  very  deaf,  and  if  we  had 
knocked  our  little  knuckles  off  she  would  not 
have  heard  us,  —  but  went  in,  and,  passing  along 
the  passage,  rapped  at  the  door  of  the  "common 
room,"  half  sitting-room,  half  kitchen,  and  were 
admitted.  Those  who  saw  her  for  the  first 
time,  whether  children  or  grown  people,  were 
generally  afraid  of  her;  for  her  voice,  unmodu- 


AUNT    MOLLY. 


lated,  of  course,  by  the  ear,  was  naturally  harsh, 
strong,  and  high-toned ;  and  the  sort  of  half 
laugh,  half  growl,  that  she  uttered  when  pleased, 
might  have  suggested  to  an  imaginative  child 
the  howl  of  a  wolf.  She  had  very  large  features, 
and  sharp,  penetrating  black  eyes,  shaded  by 
long,  gray  lashes,  and  surmounted  by  thick, 
bushy,  gray  eyebrows.  I  think  that  when  she 
was  scolding  the  school-boys,  with  those  eyes 
fiercely  "glowering"  at  them  from  under  the 
shaggy  gray  thatch,  she  must  have  appeared,  to 
those  who  in  their  learned  page  had  got  as  far 
as  the  Furies,  like  a  living  illustration  of  classic 
lore.  Her  cap  and  the  make  of  her  dress  were 
peculiar,  and  suggestive  of  those  days  before, 
and  at  the  time  of,  the  Revolution,  of  which  she 
loved  to  speak. 

But  we,  her  little  favorites,  were  not  afraid  of 
her.  To  go  into  her  garden  in  summer,  and  eat 
currants,  larger  and  sweeter  than  any  we  found 
at  home,  —  to  look  up  at  the  enormous  old 
damson-tree,  when  it  was  white  with  blossoms, 
and  the  rich  honey-comb  smell  was  diffused  over 
the  whole  garden,  —  was  a  pleasant  little  excur 
sion  to  us.  She  took  great  care  and  pains  to  save 
the  plums  from  the  plundering  boys,  because  it 


26  AUNT    MOLLY. 

was  the  only  real  damson  there  was  anywhere 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  she  found  a  ready  sale 
for  them,  for  preserves.  She  seemed  to  think 
that  the  real  damsons  went  out  with  the  real 
gentry  of  the  olden  time ;  and  perhaps  they  did, 
as  damsons,  though,  for  aught  I  know,  they  may 
figure  now  in  our  fruit  catalogues  as  "  The  Duke 
of  Argyle's  New  Seedling  Acidulated  Drop  of 
Damascus,"  —  which  would  be  something  like  a 
translation  of  Damson  into  the  modern  termi 
nology. 

But  more  pleasant  still  was  it  to  go  into  Aunt 
Molly's  "  best  room."  The  walls  she  had  pa 
pered  herself,  with  curious  stripes  and  odd 
pieces,  of  various  shapes  and  patterns,  orna 
mented  with  a  border  of  figures  of  little  men 
and  women  joining  hands,  cut  from  paper  of  all 
colors  ;  and  they  were  adorned,  besides,  with  sev 
eral  prints  in  shining  black  frames.  There  was 
no  carpet  on  the  snow-white,  unpainted  floor, 
but  various  mats  and  rugs,  of  all  the  kinds  into 
which  ingenuity  has  transformed  woollen  rags, 
were  disposed  about  it.  The  bed  was  the  pride 
and  glory  of  the  room,  however ;  for  on  it  was 
spread  a  silk  patchwork  quilt,  made  of  pieces  of 
the  brocade  and  damask  and  elegant  silks,  of 


AUNT    MOLLY.  27 

which  the  ladies  belonging  to  the  grand  old  Tory 
families  had  their  gowns  and  cardinals,  and 
other  paraphernalia,  made.  Aunt  Molly  had 
been  a  mantuamaker  to  the  old  "quality,"  and 
she  could  show  us  a  piece  of  Madam  Vassall's 
gown  on  that  wonderful  and  brilliant  piece  of 
work,  the  bed-quilt.  "  On  that  hint "  she  would 
speak. 

"  A-haw-awr!  They  were  real  gentle  folks 
that  lived  in  them  days.  A-haw-awr !  I  declare, 
I  could  e'en-arnost  kneel  down  and  kiss  the  very 
airth  they  trod  on,  as  they  went  by  my  house  to 
church.  Polite,  they  wor !  Yes,  they  knew 
what  true  politeness  was;  and  to  my  thinking 
true  politeness  is  next  to  saving  grace." 

Once  a  year,  or  so,  Aunt  Molly  would  dress 
up  in  her  best  gown,  a  black  silk,  trimmed  with 
real  black  lace,  and  a  real  lace  cap,  relics  of  the 
good  old  days  of  Toryism  and  brocade  and  the 
real  gentry,  and  go  to  make  an  afternoon  visit 
to  one  of  her  neighbors.  After  the  usual  saluta 
tions,  the  lady  would  ask  her  visitor  to  take  off 
her  bonnet  and  stay  the  afternoon,  knowing  by 
the  "rig"  that  such  was  her  intention.  But  she 
liked  to  be  urged  a  little,  so  she  would  say,  "  O,  I 
only  came  out  for  a  little  walk,  it  was  so  pleas- 


28  AUNT    MOLLY. 

ant,  and  stopped  in  to  see  how  little  Henry  did, 
since  his  sickness.  You  know  I  always  call  him 
my  boy"  (Yes,  Aunt  Molly,  the  only  boy  in 
the  universe,  that,  for  you,  had  any  good  in 
him.)  After  the  proper  amount  of  urging,  she 
would  lay  aside  her  bonnet  and  black  satin 
mantle,  saying,  "  Well,  I  didn't  come  here  to  get 
my  tea,  but  you  are  so  urgent,  I  believe  I  will 
stay." 

Aunt  Molly's  asides  were  often  amusing.  She 
was  so  very  deaf  that  she  could  not  hear  her 
own  voice,  and  often  imagined  she  was  whisper 
ing,  when  she  could  be  heard  across  the  room. 

On  one  occasion  she  saw  a  gentleman  who 
was  a  stranger  to  her,  in  the  parlor,  when  she 
went  to  visit  one  of  the  ladies  who  were  kind 
and  attentive  to  her.  She  sat  a  few  minutes 
looking  keenly  at  him,  and  then  whispered, 
"Who's  that?"  "Mr.  Jay."  "Who?"  "  MR. 
JAY."  "Who?"  "MR.  JAY."  "  Oh— o— oh  ! 
Mr.  Jay.  Well,  what  does  he  do  for  a  living?" 
"He's  a  tutor,  Ma'am."  "What?"  "A  TU 
TOR."  "What?"  "A  TUTOR."  "  Oh— o— 
oh !  I  thought  you  said  a  suitor! " 

Aunt  Molly  owned  the  little  brown  cottage, 
where  her  widowed  mother,  she  said,  had  lived, 


AUNT    MOLLY.  29 

and  there  she  died.  As  soon  as  she  was  laid  in 
her  grave,  it  was  torn  down,  and  the  precious 
damson-tree  was  felled.  I  was  rather  glad  that 
the  school-house  was  so  ugly,  that  I  might  have 
a  double  reason  for  hating  the  usurper.  If 
Nemesis  cares  for  school-boys,  she  doubtless 
looks  on  with  a  grin,  now,  to  see  them  scamper 
ing  at  their  will  round  the  precincts  of  the  former 
enemy  of  their  race,  and  listens  with  pleasure 
while  they  "  make  day  hideous"  where  once  the 
bee  and  the  humming-bird  only  broke  the  quiet 
of  the  little  garden. 

Aunt  Molly  had  a  vigorous,  active  mind,  and 
a  strong,  tenacious  memory  ;  and  her  love  of  the 
departed  grandeur  and  Toryism  of  Court  Row,  as 
she  called  that  part  of  Brattle  Street  from  Ash 
Street  to  Mount  Auburn,  was  pleasant  and  en 
tertaining  to  those  who  listened  to  her  tales  of 
other  times. 

Peace  to  her  memory ! 


THE  SOUNDS  OF  MORNING  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 


I  SING  the  melodies  of  early  morn. 
Hark  !  —  't  is  the  distant  roar  of  iron  wheels, 
First  sound  of  busy  life,  and  the  shrill  neigh 
Of  vapor-steed,  the  vale  of  Brighton  threading, 
Region  of  lowing  kine  and  perfumed  breeze. 
Echoes  the  shore  of  blue  meandering  Charles. 
Straightway  the  chorus  of  glad  chanticleers 
Proclaims  the  dawn.     First  comes  one  clarion  note, 
Loud,  clear,  and  long  drawn  out ;  and  hark  !  again 
Rises  the  jocund  song,  distinct,  though  distant ; 
Now  faint  and  far,  like  plaintive  cry  for  help 
Piercing  the  ear  of  Sleep.     Each  knight  o'  the  spur, 
Watchful  as  brave,  and  emulous  in  noise, 
With  mighty  pinions  beats  a  glad  reveille. 
All  feathered  nature  wakes.     Man's  drowsy  sense 
Heeds  not  the  trilling  band,  but  slumbrous  waits 
The  tardy  god  of  day.     Ah  !  sluggard,  wake  ! 


SOUNDS    OF    MORNING    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  31 

Open  thy  blind,  and  rub  thy  heavy  eyes ! 
For  once  behold  a  sunrise.     Is  there  aught 
In  thy  dream-world  more  splendid,  or  more  fair  ? 
With  crimson  glory  the  horizon  streams, 
And  ghostly  Dian  hides  her  face  ashamed. 
Now  to  the  ear  of  him  who  lingers  long 
On  downy  couch,  "  falsely  luxurious," 
Comes  the  unwelcome  din  of  college-bell 

Fast  tolling 

"  'T  is  but  the  earliest,  the  warning  peal !  " 

He  sleeps  again.     Happy  if  bustling  chum, 

Footsteps  along  the  entry,  or  perchance, 

In  the  home  bower,  maternal  knock  and  halloo, 

Shall  break  the  treacherous  slumber.     For  behold 

The  youth  collegiate  sniff  the  morning  zephyrs, 

Breezes  of  brisk  December,  frosty  and  keen, 

With  nose  incarnadine,  peering  above 

Each  graceful  shepherd's  plaid  the  chin  enfolding. 

See  how  the  purple  hue  of  youth  and  health 

Glows  in  each  cheek ;    how  the   sharp   wind  brings 

pearls 

From  every  eye,  brightening  those  dimmed  with  study, 
And  waste  of  midnight  oil,  o'er  classic  page 
Long  poring.     Boreas  in  merry  mood 
Plays  with  each  unkempt  lock,  and  vainly  strives 
To  make  a  football  of  the  Freshman's  beaver, 
Or  the  sage  Sophomore's  indented  felt. 


32  SOUNDS    OF    MORNING    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

Behold  the  foremost,  with  deliberate  stride 
And  slow,  approach  the  chapel,  tree-embowered, 
Entering  composedly  its  gaping  portal ; 
Then,  as  the  iron  tongue  goes  on  to  rouse 
The  mocking  echoes  with  its  call,  arrive 
Others,  with  hastier  step  and  heaving  chest. 
Anon,  some  bound  along  divergent  paths 
Which  scar  the  grassy  plain,  and,  with  no  pause 
For  breath,  press  up  the  rocky  stair.     Straightway, 
A  desperate  few,  with  headlong,  frantic  speed, 
Swifter  than  arrow-flight  or  Medford  whirlwind, 
Sparks  flying  from  iron-shod  heels  at  every  footfall, 
Over  stone  causeway  and  tessellated  pavement, — 
They  come  —  they  come  —  they   leap  —  they   scam 
per  in, 
Ere,  grating  on  its  hinges,  slams  the  door 

Inexorable 

Pauses  the  sluggard,  at  Wood  and  Hall's  just  crossing, 
The  chime  m.elodious  dying  on  his  ear. 
Embroidered  sandals  scarce  maintain  their  hold 
Upon  his  feet,  shuffling,  with  heel  exposed, 
And  'neath  his  upper  garment  just  appears 
A  many-colored  robe  ;- about  his  throat 
No  comfortable  scarf,  but  crumpled  gills 
Shrink  from  the  scanning  eye  of  passenger 
The  omnibus  o'erhauling.     List !  't  was  the  last, 
Last  stroke  !  it  dies  away,  like  murmuring  wave. 


SOUNDS    OF    MORNING    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  33 

Bootless  he  came,  —  and  bootless  wends  he  back, 
Gnawing  his  gloveless  thumb,  and  pacing  slow. 
Bright  eyes  might  gaze  on  him,  compassionate, 
But  that  yon  rosy  maiden,  early  afoot, 
Is  o'er  her  shoulder  watching,  with  wild  fear, 
A  horned  host  that  rushes  by  amain, 
Bellowing  bassoon-like  music.     Angry  shouts 
Of  drovers,  horrid  menace,  and  dire  curse, 
Shrill  scream  of  imitative  boy,  and  crack 
Of  cruel  whip,  the  tread  of  clumsy  feet 
Are  hurrying  on  :  —  but  now,  with  instinct  sure, 
Madly  those  doomed  ones  bolt  from  the  dread  road 
That  leads  to  Brighton  and  to  death.     They  charge 
Up  Brattle  Street.     Screaming  the  maiden  flies, 
Nor  heeds  the  loss  of  fluttering  veil,  upborne 
On  sportive  breeze,  and  sailing  far  away. 
And  now  a  flock  of  sheep,  bleating,  bewildered, 
With  tiny  footprints  fret  the  dusty  square, 
And  huddling  strive  to  elude  relentless  fate. 
And  hark  !  with  snuffling  grunt,  and  now  and  then 
A  squeak,  a  squad  of  long-nosed  gentry  run 
The  gutters  to  explore,  with  comic  jerk 
Of  the  investigating  snout,  and  wink 
At  passer-by,  and  saucy,  lounging  gait, 
And  independent,  lash-defying  course. 
And  now  the  baker,  with  his  steaming  load, 
Hums  like  the  humble-bee  from  door  to  door, 
3 


84  SOUNDS    OF    MORNING    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

And  thoughts  of  breakfast  rise  ;  and  harmonies 
Domestic,  song  of  kettle,  and  hissing  urn, 
Glad  voices,  and  the  sound  of  hurrying  feet, 
Clatter  of  chairs,  and  din  of  knife  and  fork, 
Bring  to  a  close  the  Melodies  of  Morn. 


THE  SOUNDS  OF  EVENING  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 


THE  Melodies  of  Morning  late  I  sang. 

Recall  we  now  those  Melodies  of  Even 

Which  charmed  our  ear,  the  summer-day  o'erpast ; 

Full  of  the  theme,  O  Phrebus,  hear  me  sing. 

What  time  thy  golden  car  draws  near  its  goal, — 

Mount  Auburn's  pillared  summit,  —  chorus  loud 

Of  mud-born  songsters  fills  the  dewy  air. 

Hark  !  in  yon  shallow  pool,  what  melody 

Is  poured  from  swelling  throats,  liquid  and  bubbling, 

As  if  the  plaintive  notes  thrilled  struggling  through 

The  stagnant  waters  and  the  waving  reeds. 

Monotonous  the  melancholy  strain, 

Save  when  the  bull-frog,  from  some  slimy  depth 

Profound,   sends  up  his  deep    "  Poo-toob  !  "      "  Poo- 

toob  !  " 

Like  a  staccato  note  of  double  bass 
Marking  the  cadence.     The  unwearied  crickets 
Fill  up  the  harmony ;  and  the  whippoorwill 


36  SOUNDS    OF    EVENING    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

His  mournful  solo  sings  among  the  willows. 

The  tree-toad's  pleasant  trilling  croak  proclaims 

A  coming  rain  ;  a  welcome  evil,  sure, 

When  streets  are  one  long  ash-heap,  and  the  flowers 

Fainting  or  crisp  in  sun-baked  borders  stand. 

Mount  Auburn's  gate  is  closed.     The  latest  'bus 

Down  Brattle  Street  goes  rumbling.     Laborers 

Hie  home,  by  twos  and  threes ;  homeliest  phizzes, 

Voices  high-pitched, and  tongues  with  telltale  burr-r-r-r, 

The  short-stemmed  pipe,  diffusing  odors  vile, 

Garments  of  comic  and  misfitting  make, 

And  steps  which  tend  to  Curran's  door,  (a  man 

Ignoble,  yet  quite  worthy  of  the  name 

Of  Fill-pot  Curran,)  all  proclaim  the  race 

Adopted  by  Columbia,  grumblingly, 

When  their  step-mother  country  casts  them  off. 

Here  with  a  creaking  barrow,  piled  with  tools 

Keen  as  the  wit  that  wields  them,  hurries  by 

A  man  of  different  stamp.     His  well-trained  limbs 

Move  with  a  certain  grace  and  readiness, 

Skilful  intelligence  every  muscle  swaying. 

Rapid  his  tread,  yet  firm  ;  his  scheming  brain 

Teems  with  broad  plans,  and  hopes  of  future  wealth, 

And  time  and  life  move  all  too  slow  for  him. 

Will  he  industrious  gains  and  home  renounce 

To  grow  more  quickly  rich  in  lands  unblest  ? 

Hear'st  thou  that  gleeful  shout  ?     Who  opes  the  gate, 

The  neatly  painted  gate,  and  runs  before 


SOUNDS    OF    EVENING    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  37 

With  noisy  joy  ?     Now  from  the  trellised  door 
Toddles  another  bright-haired  boy.     And  now 
Captive  they  lead  the  father  ;  strong  their  grasp  ; 
He  cannot  break  away. 

Dreamily  quiet 

The  dewy  twilight  of  a  summer  eve. 
Tired  mortals  lounge  at  casement  or  at  door, 
While  deepening  shadows  gather  round.     No  lamp 
Save  in  yon  shop,  whose  sable  minister 
His  evening  customers  attends.     Anon, 
With  squeaking  bucket  on  his  arm,  emerges 
The  errand-boy,  slow  marching  to  the  tune 
Of  "  Uncle  Ned  "  or  "  Norma,"  whistled  shrill. 
Hark  !  heard  you  not  against  the  window-pane 
The  dash  of  horny  skull  in  mad  career, 
And  a  loud  buzz  of  terror  ?     He  '11  be  in, 

This  horrid  beetle;  yes,  —  and  in  my  hair! 

Close  all  the  blinds  ;  't  is  dismal,  but  't  is  safe. 

Listen  !     Methought  I  heard  delicious  music, 

Faint  and  afar.     Pray,  is  the  Boat-Club  out  ? 

Do  the  Pierian  minstrels  meet  to-night  ? 

Or  chime  the  bells  of  Boston,  or  the  Port  ? 

Nearer  now,  nearer  —  Ah  !  bloodthirsty  villain, 

Is  't  you  ?     Too  late  I  closed  the  blind  !     Alas ! 

List !  there  's  another  trump  !  —  There,  two  of  'em  !  — 

Two  ?     A  quintette  at  least.     Mosquito  chorus  ! 

A — ah  !  my  cheek  !     And  oh  !  again,  my  eyelid  ! 

I  gave  myself  a  stunning  cuff  on  the  ear 


38     SOUNDS  OF  EVENING  IN  CAMBRIDGE. 

And  all  in  vain.     Flap  we  our  handkerchief; 

Flap,  flap  !     (A  smash.)      Quick,  quick,  bring  in  a 

lamp  ! 

I  've  switched  a  flower-vase  from  the  shelf.     Ah  me  ! 
Splash  on  my  head,  and  then  upon  my  feet, 
The  water  poured  ;  —  I  'm  drowned  !  my  slipper 's  full ! 
My  dickey  —  ah  !  't  is  cruel !     Flowers  are  nonsense  ! 
I  'd  have  them  amaranths  all,  or  made  of  paper. 
Here,  wring  rny  neckcloth,  and  rub  down  my  hair  ! 

Now  Mr.  Brackett,  punctual  man,  is  ringing 
The  curfew  bell ;  't  is  nine  o'clock  already. 
'T  is  early  bedtime,  yet  methinks  'twere  joy 
On  mattress  cool  to  stretch  supine.     At  midnight, 
Were  it  winter,  I  were  less  fatigued,  less  sleepy. 
Sleep  !  I  invoke  thee,  "comfortable  bird, 
That  broodest  o'er  the  troubled  waves  of  life, 
And  hushest  them  to  peace."     All  hail  the  man 
Who  first  invented  bed  !     O,  wondrous  soft 
This  pillow  to  my  weary  head  !  right  soon 
My  dizzy  thoughts  shall  o'er  the  brink  of  sleep 
Fall  into  chaos  and  be  lost.     I  dream. 
Now  comes  mine  enemy,  not  silently, 
But  with  insulting  and  defiant  warning  ; 
Come,  banquet,  if  thou  wilt ;  I  offer  thee 
My  cheek,  my  arm.     Tease  me  not,  hovering  high 
With  that  continuous  hum  ;  I  fain  would  rest. 
Come,  do  thy  worst  at  once.     Bite,  scoundrel,  bite  ! 
Thou  insect  vulture,  seize  thy  helpless  prey  ! 


SOUNDS    OF    EVENING    IN    CAMBRIDGE.  39 

No  ceremony  !     (I  'd  have  none  with  thee, 

Could  I  but  find  thee.)     Fainter  now  and  farther 

The  tiny  war-whoop  ;  now  I  hear  it  not. 

A  cowardly  assassin  he  ;  he  waits, 

Full  well  aware  that  I  am  on  the  alert, 

With  murderous  intent.     Perchance  he  's  gone, 

Hawk-eye  and  nose  of  hound  not  serving  him 

To  find  me  in  the  dark.     With  a  long  sigh, 

I  beat  my  pillow,  close  my  useless  eyes, 

And  soon  again  my  thoughts  whirl  giddily, 

Verging  towards  dreams.    Starting,  I  shake  my  bed  ;  — 

Loud  thumps  my  heart,  —  rises  on  end  my  hair  ! 

A  murder-screech,  and  yells  of  frantic  fury, 

Under  my  very  window,  —  a  duet 

Of  fiendish  hatred,  battle  to  the  death,  — 

'T  is  enough  to  enrage  a  man  !     Missile  I  seize, 

Not  caring  what,  and  with  a  savage  "  S  cat !  " 

That  scrapes  my  throat,  let  drive.     I  would  it  were 

A  millstone  !     Swiftly  through  the  garden  beds 

And  o'er  the  fence  on  either  side  they  fly  ; 

I  to  my  couch  return,  but  not  to  sleep. 

Weary  I  toss,  and  think  't  is  almost  dawn, 

So  still  the  streets ;  but  now  the  latest  train, 

Whistling  melodiously,  comes  in  ;  the  tramp 

Of  feet,  and  hum  of  voices,  echo  far 

In  the  still  night  air.     Now  with  joy  I  feel 

My  eyelids  droop  once  more.     To  sleep  and  dream 

Is  bliss  unspeakable  ;  —  I  'm  going  off;  — 


40  SOUNDS    OF    EVENING    IN    CAMBRIDGE. 

What  was  I  thinking  last  ?  — slowly  I  rise 
On  downy  pinions ;  dreaming,  I  fly,  I  soar  ;  — 
Through  the  clouds  my  way  I  'm  winging, 
Angels  to  their  harps  are  singing, 
Strains  of  unearthly  sweetness  lull  me, 
And    thrilling    harmonies  "  Yelp  !      Bow-wow- 
wow  !  " 

"  Get  out !  " — "  The  dog  has  got  me  by  the  leg  !  " 
"  Stave  him  off!    Will  you  ?     See,  he  's  rent  my  pants, 
My  newest  plaid  !  —  Kick  him  !  "  —  "  Yow,  yow  !  "  — 

"  This  house 

I  '11  never  serenade  again  !  —  A  dog 
Should  know  musicians  from  suspicious  chaps, 
And  gentlemen  from  rowdies,  even  at  night !  " 
"  Beat  him  again  !  "     "  No,  no  !     Perhaps  't  is  HERS  ! 
A  lady^s  pet  !     Methinks  the  curtain  moves  ! 
She  's  looking  out !      Let 's   sing    once  more  !     Just 

once  !  " 

"  Not  I.  —  I  '11  sing  no  more  to-night !  "  and  steps 
Limping  unequally,  and  grumbling  voice, 
Pass  round  the  corner,  and  are  heard  no  more. 


TO  THE   NEAR-SIGHTED. 


PURBLIND  and  short-sighted  friends !  You  will 
listen  to  me,  —  you  will  sympathize  with  me;  for 
you  know  by  painful  experience  what  I  mean 
when  I  say  that  we  near-sighted  people  do  not 
receive  from  our  hawk-eyed  neighbors  that  sym 
pathy  and  consideration  to  which  we  are  justly 
entitled.  If  we  were  blind,  we  should  be  abun 
dantly  pitied,  but  as  we  are  only  half-blind,  such 
comments  as  these  are  all  the  consolation  we 
get.  "  Oh !  near-sighted,  is  she  ?  Yes,  it  is  very 
fashionable  now-a-days  for  young  ladies  to  carry 
eye-glasses,  and  call  themselves  near-sighted ! " 
Or,  "  Pooh !  It 's  all  affectation.  She  can  see 
as  well  as  any  body,  if  she  chooses.  She  thinks 
it  is  pretty  to  half  shut  her  eyes,  and  cut  her  ac 
quaintances."  I  meet  my  friend  A ,  some 

morning,  who  returns  my  salutation  with  cold 


42  TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED. 

politeness,  and  says,  "  How  cleverly  you  man 
aged  to  cut  me  at  the  concert  last  night ! "  "At 
the  concert!  I  did  not  see  you."  "  O  no !  You 
could  see  well  enough  to  bow  to  pretty  Miss 

B ,  and  her  handsome  cousin  ;  but  as  for 

seeing  your  old  schoolmate,  two  seats  behind 
her,  —  of  course  you  are  too  near-sighted ! "  In 
vain  I  protest  that  I  could  not  see  her,  —  that 
three  yards  is  a  great  distance  to  my  eyes. 
She  leaves  me  with  an  incredulous  smile,  and 
that  most  provoking  phrase,  "  O  yes !  I  sup 
pose  so ! "  and  distrusts  me  ever  afterwards. 
Alas!  we  see  just  enough  to  seal  our  own  con 
demnation. 

Who  is  free  from  this  malady  ?  As  I  look 
around  in  society,  I  see  staring  glassy  ellipses  on 
every  side  "  in  the  place  where  eyes  ought  to 
grow," — and  perhaps  most  of  the  unfortunate 
owls  get  along  very  comfortably  with  their  artifi 
cial  eyes.  But  imagine  a  bashful  youth,  awk 
ward  and  near-sigvhted,  whose  friends  dissuade 
him  from  wearing  glasses.  Is  there  in  the  uni 
verse  an  individual  more  unlucky,  more  blunder 
ing,  more  sincerely  to  be  pitied? 

See  that  little  boy,  who,  having  put  on  his 
father's  spectacles,  is  enjoying  for  the  first  time  a 


TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED.  43 

clear  and  distinct  view  of  the  evening  sky.  "  Oh  ! 
is  that  pretty  little  yellow  dot  a  star?"  exclaims 
the  delighted  child.  Poor  innocent!  a  star  had 
always  been  to  him  a  dim,  cloudy  spot,  a  little 
nebula,  which  the  magic  glass  has  now  re 
solved  ;  and  he  can  hardly  believe  that  this  bril 
liant  point  is  not  an  optical  illusion.  But  when 
his  mother  assures  him  that  the  stars  always  ap 
pear  so  to  her,  and  he  turns  to  look  in  her  face, 
he  says,  "Why,  mother!  how  beautiful  you 
look  !  Please  to  give  me  some  little  spectacles, 
all  my  own ! "  She  could  not  resist  this  en 
treaty,  —  (who  could  ?)  —  and  little  "  Squire 
Specs"  does  not  mind  the  shouts  of  his  com 
panions  or  the  high-sounding  nicknames  they 
give  him,  he  so  rejoices  in  what  seems  to  him  a 
new  sense,  a  second  sight. 

I  was  summoned,  the  other  day,  to  welcome  a 
family  of  cousins  from  a  distant  State,  whom  I 
had  not  seen  for  a  very  long  time.  They  were 
accompanied,  I  was  told,  by  a  Boston  lady,  a 
stranger  to  us.  I  entered  the  room  with  consid 
erable  empressement,  but  when  my  eye  detected 
the  dim  outline  of  a  circle  of  bonneted  figures,  I 
stopped  in  despair  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
not  knowing  which  was  which,  or  whom  I  ought 


44  TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED. 

to  speak  to  first,  and  at  last  made  an  embar 
rassed  half-bow,  half-courtesy,  to  the  company  in 
general.  A  confused  murmur  of  greetings  and 
introductions  followed,  and,  throwing  aside  my 
air  of  stiff,  ceremonious  politeness,  I  rushed,  with 
a  smiling  face,  to  the  nearest  lady,  shook  hands 
with  her  in  the  most  cordial  manner,  and  then, 
in  passing,  bowed  formally  to  the  next,  who  I 
concluded  was  the  stranger.  "What  then  was 
my  surprise  and  utter  confusion  when  she  caught 
me  by  the  hand,  and,  drawing  me  towards  her, 
kissed  me  emphatically  several  times.  "  How 
do  you  do,  dear  ?  Have  you  quite  forgotten 
me?  Ah!  You  don't  remember  the  times 
when  you  used  to  ride  a  cock-horse,  on  my 
knee,  to  Banbury  Cross,  to  see  the  old  lady  get 
on  her  white  horse !  "  What  could  I  say  ?  I 
was  petrified.  I  could  not  smile,  I  could  not 
speak.  My  only  feeling  was  mortification  at  my 
most  awkward  mistake.  Yet  I  ought  to  have 
become  accustomed  to  such  embarrassments,  for 
they  are  of  very  frequent  occurrence. 

"  Why,  Julia !  what  is  the  matter  ?  How 
strangely  your  eyes  look !  "  My  sister  at  this 
exclamation  turns  round,  and  I  discover  that 
from  the  other  end  of  the  room  I  have  been  gaz- 


TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED.  45 

ing  at  the  unexpressive  features  of  her  "back 
hair,"  which  is  twisted  in  a  "  pug,"  or  "  bob,"  — 
which  is  the  correct  term  ?  —  and  surmounted  by 
a  tortoise-shell  comb. 

But  in  the  whole  course  of  my  numerous  mis 
takes  and  blunders,  whether  ludicrous,  serious,  or 
embarrassing,  I  believe  I  have  never  mistaken  a 
cow  for  a  human  being,  as  was  done  by  old  Dr. 

E .     It  was  many  years  ago,  when  Boston 

Common  was  still  used  as  a  pasture,  and  cows 
were  daily  to  be  met  in  the  crooked  streets  of 
the  city,  that  this  gentleman,  distinguished  for 
the  courtesy  and  old-school  politeness  of  his 
manner,  no  less  than  for  his  extreme  near-sight 
edness,  was  walking  at  a  brisk  pace,  one  winter's 
day,  and  saw,  just  before  him,  a  lady,  as  he 
thought,  richly  dressed  in  furs.  As  he  was  pass 
ing  her,  he  thought  he  perceived  that  her  fur  boa 
or  tippet  had  escaped  from  her  neck,  and,  care 
fully  lifting  the  end  of  it  with  one  hand,  he  made 
a  low  bow,  raising  his  hat  with  the  other,  and 
said  in  his  blandest  tone,  "  Madam,  you  are  los 
ing  your  tippet!"  And  what  thanks  did  the 
worthy  Doctor  receive,  do  you  think,  for  this 
truly  kind  and  polite  deed?  Why,  the  lady 
merely  turned  her  head,  gave  him  a  won- 


46  TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED. 

dering  stare  with  her  large  eyes,  and  said, 
"  Moo-o-o-o ! " 

As  an  offset  to  this  instance  of  courtesy  and 
good-breeding  lavished  on  a  cow,  let  me  give 
you,  as  a  parting  bon-bouche,  another  cow  anec 
dote,  where,  as  you  will  see,  there  was  no  gentle 
politeness  wasted. 

The  Rev.  Dr.  H was  an  eccentric  old  man, 

near-sighted  of  course,  —  all  eccentric  people 
are,  —  who  lived  in  a  small  country  town  in  this 
neighborhood.  Numerous  are  the  traditionary 
accounts  of  his  peculiarities,  —  of  his  odd  man 
ners  and  customs,  —  which  I  have  heard  ;  but  it 
is  only  of  one  little  incident  that  I  am  now 
going  to  speak.  A  favorite  employment  of 
this  good  man  was  the  care  of  his  garden,  and 
he  might  be  seen  any  pleasant  afternoon  in 
summer,  rigged  out  in  a  hideous  yellow  calico 
robe,  or  blouse,  with  a  dusty  old  black  straw 
hat  stuck  on  the  back  of  his  head,  hoeing 
and  digging  in  that  beloved  patch  of  ground. 
One  day  as  he  was  thus  occupied,  his  wife 
emerged  from  the  house,  dressed  in  a  dark 
brown  gingham,  and  bearing  in  her  hand  some 
"  muslins,"  which  she  began  to  spread  upon  the 
gooseberry-bushes  to  whiten.  She  was  very 


TO    THE    NEAR-SIGHTED.  47 

busily  engaged,  so  that  she  was  not  aware  that 
her  husband  was  approaching  her  with  a  large 
stick,  until  she  felt  a  smart  blow  across  her 
shoulders,  and  heard  his  peculiar,  sharp  voice 
shouting  in  her  ears,  "  Go  'long!  old  cow!  Go 
'long!  old  cow!" 


FLOWERS   FROM   A   STUDENT'S  WALKS. 


As  the  animal  dies  of  inanition  if  fed  on  but 
one  kind  of  food,  however  congenial,  yet  lives  if 
he  has  all  in  succession,  so  is  it  with  complex  man. 

Learn  retrenchment  from  the  starving  oyster, 
who  spends  his  last  energies  in  a  new  pearly 
layer  suited  to  his  shrunken  form. 

As  animals  which  have  no  organs  of  special 
sense  know  not  light  or  sound  as  we  do,  yet 
shrink  from  a  hand  or  candle  because  their 
whole  bodies  are  dimly  conscious,  thus  we  have 
a  glimmering  perception  of  infinite  truths  and 
existences  which  we  cannot  grasp  or  fully  know 
because  our  minds  have  no  special  organs  for 
them. 

The  prick  in  the  butterfly's  wing  will  be  in 
the  full-grown  insect  a  great  blemish.  The 
speck  in  thy  child's  nature,  if  fondly  overlooked 


FLOWERS    FROM    A    STUDENT'S    WALKS.         49 

now,  will  become  a  wide  rent  traversing  all  his 
virtues. 

As  mineral  poisons  kill,  because  by  their  strong 
affinity  they  decompose  the  blood  and  form  new 
stony  substances,  so  the  sonl  possessed  by  too 
strong  an  affinity  for  gold  petrifies. 

Our  principles  are  central  forces,  our  desires 
tangential;  it  requires  both  to  describe  the  curve 
of  life. 

The  slightest  inclination  of  a  standing  body 
virtually  narrows  its  base ;  the  least  departure 
from  integrity  lessens  our  foundation.  The 
pyramid,  broad-based,  yet  heaven-pointed,  is  the 
firmest  figure.  Most  characters  are  inconsistent, 
unsymmetrical,  and  have  a  base  wanting  extent 
in  some  direction. 

Be  not  over-curious  in  assigning  causes  or 
predicting  consequences;  the  same  diagonal 
may  be  formed  by  various  combining  forces. 

Through  water  the  musical  sound  is  not 
transmitted,  only  the  harsh  material  noise.  In 
air  the  noise  is  heard  very  near,  the  musical 
sounds  only  are  transmitted.  Be  thankful,  poets 
and  prophets,  when  you  live  in  an  element  such 
that  your  uncomely  features  are  known  only  to 
your  own  village. 

4 


50          FLOWERS    FROM    A    STUDENT'S    WALKS. 

"  Do  not  sing  its  fundamental  note  too  loud 
near  a  delicate  glass,  or  it  will  break,"  whispered 
my  friend  to  me,  as  he  saw  me  gazing  at  this 
lovely  being. 

Seek  the  golden  mean  of  life.  Like  the  tem 
perate  regions,  it  has  but  few  thorny  plants. 

Be  doubly  careful  of  those  to  whom  nature 
has  been  a  niggard.  The  oak  and  the  palm 
take  their  own  forms  under  all  circumstances; 
the  fungi  seem  to  owe  theirs  to  outward  influ 
ences. 

It  is  a  poor  plant  that  crisps  quickly  into 
wood.  It  is  a  'meagre  character  which  runs  per 
petually  into  prejudices. 

As  light  suffers  from  no  change  of  medium 
when  it  falls  perpendicularly,  so  the  conse 
quences  of  a  perfectly  upright  action,  or  cause 
of  action,  are  strictly  fortunate.  But  let  it  be 
ever  so  little  oblique,  the  new  medium  will  ex 
aggerate  its  obliquity  ;  and  the  farther  it  departs 
from  uprightness,  the  more  frightfully  it  is  dis 
torted. 

Hoops  and  coins,  which  cannot  preserve  their 
equilibrium  when  in  rest,  keep  it  when  set  in 
motion.  Man  also  in  activity  finds  his  safest 
position. 


FLOWERS    FROM    A    STUDENT'S    WALKS.          51 

As  it  takes  a  diamond  to  cut  and  shape  a 
diamond,  so  there  are  faults  so  obstinate  that 
they  can  be  worn  away  only  by  life-long  contact 
with  similar  faults  in  those  we  love. 

Learn  the  virtue  of  action.  Who  inquires 
whether  momentum  comes  from  mass  or  veloci 
ty  ?  But  velocity  has  this  advantage ;  it  de 
pends  on  ourselves. 

The  grass  is  green  after  these  October  rains, 
because  in  the  July  drought  it  struck  deep  roots. 


MISERIES. 
No.  1. 


DID  you  ever  try  to  eat  a  peach  elegantly  and 
gracefully  ?  Of  course  you  have.  Show  me  a 
man  who  has  not  tried  the  experiment,  when 
under  the  restraint  of  human  surveillance,  and  I 
shall  look  upon  him  as  a  curiosity.  There  is  no 
fruit,  certainly,  which  has  so  fair  and  alluring  an 
exterior ;  but  few  content  themselves  with  feast 
ing  their  eyes  upon  it.  How  fresh  and  ripe  it 
looks  as  it  lies  upon  the  plate,  with  its  rosy 
cheek  turned  temptingly  upward!  How  cool 
and  soft  is  the  downy  skin  to  the  touch !  And 
the  fragrance,  so  suggestive  of  its  rich,  delicious 
flavor,  who  can  resist  ?  Ah,  unhappy  wight ! 
Bitterly  you  shall  repent  your  rashness.  Any 
other  fruit  can  be  eaten  with  comparative  ease 
and  politeness ;  a  peach  was  evidently  intended 


MISERIES.  53 

only  to  be  looked  at,  or  enjoyed  beneath  your 
own  tree,  where  no  eye  may  watch  %and  criticize 
your  motions. 

I  see  you,  in  imagination,  at  a  party,  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  plate  in  hand,  regard 
ing  your  peach  as  if  it  were  some  great  natural 
curiosity.  A  sudden  jog  of  your  elbow  compels 
you  to  a  succession  of  most  dexterous  balancings 
as  your  heavy  peach  rolls  from  side  to  side, 
knocks  down  your  knife,  and  threatens  to  plunge 
after  it  when  you  stoop  to  regain  it.  You  look 
distractedly  round  for  a  table,  but  all  are  occu 
pied.  Even  the  corner  of  the  mantel-shelf  holds 
a  plate,  and  you  enviously  see  the  owner  thereof 
leaning  carelessly  against  the  chimney,  and  look 
ing  placidly  round  upon  his  less  fortunate  com 
panions.  You  glance  at  the  different  groups 
to  see  if  any  one  else  is  in  your  most  unenvi 
able  predicament.  Ah,  yes!  Yonder  stands  a 
gentleman  worse  off  yet,  for,  in  addition  to 
your  perplexities,  he  is  talking  with  a  young, 
laughing  girl,  who  is  watching  his  movements, 
with  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  bright  eyes.  He 
evidently  wishes  to  astonish  her  by  his  dexterity, 
and  disappoint  her  roguish  expectations.  He 
holds  his  plate  firmly  in  his  left  hand,  and  pro- 


54  MISERIES. 

ceeds,  at  once,  to  cut  his  peach  in  halves. 
Deuce  take. the  blunt  silver  knife!  The  tough 
skin  resists  its  pressure.  The  knife  and  plate 
clash  loudly  together;  the  peach  is  bounding 
and  rolling  at  the  very  feet  of  the  young  lady, 
who  is  in  an  ecstasy  of  laughter.  Ah !  she 
herself  has  no  small  resemblance  to  a  peach, 
fair,  beautiful,  and  attractive  without,  and,  I 
sadly  fear,  with  a  hard  heart  beneath. 

Are  you  yet  more  miserable  than  before  ? 
Turn  then  to  yonder  sober-looking  gentleman, 
who  certainly  seems  sufficiently  composed  to 
perform  the  difficult  manoeuvre.  He  has  the 
advantage  of  a  table  to  be  sure;  but  that  is  not 
every  thing.  He  begins  right,  by  deliberately 
removing  the  woolly  skin.  Now  he  lays  the 
slippery  peach  in  his  plate,  and  makes  a  plunge 
at  it  with  his  knife.  A  sharp,  prolonged  screech 
across  his  plate  salutes  the  ears  of  all  the  by 
standers,  and  a  fine  slice  of  juicy  pulp  is  flung 
unceremoniously  into  the  face  of  the  gentleman 
opposite,  who  certainly  does  not  look  very  grate 
ful  for  the  unexpected  gift. 

Every  one,  of  course,  has  seen  the  awkward 
accident.  O  no!  That  pretty,  animated  girl 
upon  the  sofa  is  much  too  pleasantly  engaged, 


MISERIES.  55 

that  is  evident,  to  be  watching  her  neighbors. 
Playing  carelessly  with  her  fan,  and  casting 
many  sparkling  glances  upward  at  the  two  gen 
tlemen  who  are  vying  with  each  other  in  their 
gallant  attentions,  she  has  enough  to  do  with 
out  noticing  other  people.  She  is  happily  un 
conscious  of  the  mortification  which  is  in  store 
for  her,  or  wilfully  shuts  her  eyes  to  the  peril. 
Alas!  Her  hand  is  resting,  even  now,  upon  the 
destroyer  of  all  her  present  enjoyment,  the  beau 
tiful,  fragrant,  treacherous  peach.  With  a  non 
chalance  really  shocking  to  the  anxious  behold 
er,  she  raises  it,  and  breaks  it  open,  talking  the 
while,  and  scarcely  bestowing  a  thought  upon 
what  she  is  about.  Dexterously  done;  but  — 
O  luckless  maiden! — the  fruit  is  ripe,  and  rich, 
and  juicy,  and  the  running  drops  fall,  not  into 
her  plate,  but  upon  the  delicate  folds  of  her 
dress. 

The  merry  repartee  dies  away  upon  her  lips, 
as  she  becomes  conscious  of  the  catastrophe.  It 
is  with  a  forced  smile  that  she  declares,  "  It  is 
nothing;  O,  not  of  the  slightest  consequence !" 
That  unlucky  peach !  How  many  blunders,  how 
many  pauses,  how  many  absent-minded  remarks 
it  occasions!  She  makes  the  most  frenzied 


56  MISERIES. 

attempts  to  regain  her  former  gayety,  but  in 
vain.  Her  gloves  are  stained  and  sticky  with  the 
flowing  juice,  and  she  is  oppressed  by  the  con 
viction  that  all  her  partners  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening  will  hate  her  most  heartily.  An  expres 
sion  of  real  vexation  steals  over  her  pretty  face, 
and  she  gives  up  her  plate  to  one  of  the  attend 
ant  beaux,  with  not  so  much  as  a  wish  that  he 
will  return  to  her.  Where  are  the  arch  smiles, 
the  lively  tones,  the  quick  and  ready  responses 
now  ?  Her  spirit  is  quenched.  Her  manner 
has  become  subdued,  depressed,  —  shall  I  say  it? 
—  yes,  even  sulky. 

Ah !  I  see  your  courage  will  not  brave  laugh 
ter.  You  steal  to  the  table,  half  ashamed  of 
yourself  as  you  set  down  your  untasted  peach. 
Your  sudden  zeal  to  relieve  those  ladies  of  their 
plates  serves  as  a  very  good  excuse  for  the  re- 
linquishment  of  your  own.  You  have  rescued 
yourself  very  well  from  your  dilemma  this  time. 
Remember  my  advice  for  the  future.  Never 
accept  a  peach  in  company. 


MISERIES. 
No.  2. 

A    DARK    NIGHT. 

THERE  are  some  people  who  seem  to  have 
the  faculty  which  horses  and  dogs  are  said  to 
possess,  —  of  seeing  in  the  dark.  But  I,  alas! 
am  blind  and  blundering  as  a  beetle ;  I  never 
can  find  my  way  about  house  in  the  even 
ing,  without  a  lamp  to  illumine  my  path. 
Many  smarting  remembrances  have  I  of  bruised 
nose  and  black  eyes,  the  consequences  of  at 
tempting  to  run  through  a  partition,  under  the 
full  conviction  that  I  have  arrived  at  an  open 
door.  My  most  prominent  feature  has  been 
rudely  assailed,  also,  by  doors  standing  ajar,  un 
expectedly,  which  I  have  embraced  with  both 
outstretched  arms.  Crickets,  tables,  chairs  (es 
pecially  chairs  with  very  sharp  rockers),  and 
other  movable  articles  of  furniture,  have  sta- 


58 


MISERIES. 


tioned  themselves,  as  it  would  seem,  with  mali 
cious  intent  to  trip  me  up.     Some  murderous 
contusion  makes  me  suddenly'conscious  of  their 
presence.     Then  a  feeling  of  complete  bewilder 
ment  and  helplessness  and  timidity  comes  over 
me.     I  have  not  the  least  idea  in  what  part  of 
the  room  I  am.     I  am  oppressed  with  a  sense  of 
chairs,  scattered  about  in  improbable  places.     I 
long  most  ardently  for  a  lamp,  or  only  for  one 
gleam  from  a  neighbor's  window.     It  is  no  rare 
thing  for  me  to  discover,  by  a  thrilling  touch 
upon  the  cold  glass,  that  I  have  been  feeling  my 
way  exactly  in  the  opposite  direction  from  what 
I  imagined.     Strange  how  ideas  of  direction  and 
distance  are  lost  when  the  sight  is  powerless ! 
Touch  may  find  out  mistakes,  but  cannot  always 
prevent  them.     Touch  may  convince  me  that  I 
have  arrived  at  my  bureau,  but  it  is  too  careless 
to  perceive  (what  the  poor,  straining  eyes  would 
have  discovered   at  a  glance)    the  open  upper 
drawer  that  salutes  my  forehead  as  I  stoop  hastily 
to  grasp  the  handles  beneath.     Touch  is  clumsy. 
It  only  serves  to  upset  valuable  plants,  inkstands, 
solar  lamps,  &c.,  with  an  appalling  crash,  and 
then  leaves  me  standing  aghast,  in  utter  uncer 
tainty  as  to  the  extent  of  the  catastrophe.     In 


A    DARK    NIGHT.  59 

such  emergencies  a  rush  for  the  stairs  is  the  first 
impulse.     Ah!  but  those  stairs ! 

I  will  pass  over  the  startling  plunge  which 
begins  my  descent,  the  frantic  snatch  for  the 
banisters,  and  the  strange,  momentary  doubt  as 
to  which  foot  must  move  first,  like  what  a  child 
may  feel  when  learning  to  walk.  All  this  only 
serves  to  render  me  so  over-careful,  that,  when  I 
actually  arrive  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  I  can 
not  believe  it,  until  a  loud  scuff,  and  the  shock 
that  follows  the  interruption  of  my  expected 
descent,  assure  me  beyond  a  doubt.  There  is 
nothing  more  exasperating  than  this,  unless  it 
may  be  the  corresponding  disappointment  in 
running  up  stairs,  when  you  raise  your  foot  high 
in  air,  and  bring  it  down  with  an  emphatic 
stamp  exactly  upon  a  level  with  the  other. 

But  these  are  mere  household  experiences. 
Sad  though  they  are,  I  esteem  them  as  nothing 
in  comparison  with  my  adventures  out  of  doors. 
In  a  dark  night,  and  especially  in  a  night  both 
dark  and  stormy,  I  feel  myself  one  of  the  most 
wretched  beings  in  existence.  Imagine  a  ves 
sel  lost  in  the  wide  ocean,  and  without  a  com 
pass,  and  you  will  have  some  faint  idea  of  my 
perplexity,  discouragement,  and  loneliness  at 


MISERIES. 


such  a  time.  I  have  a  strange  propensity  for 
shooting  off  into  the  gutter,  or  for  shouldering 
the  fences,  under  the  impression  that  I  am  pur 
suing  a  straight  course.  I  go  quite  out  of  my 
way  to  trip  over  chance  stones,  or  to  pick  out 
choice  bits  of  slippery  ice.  I  splash  recklessly 
through  deep  puddles,  stumble  over  unfortunate 
scrapers,  walk  unexpectedly  into  open  cellars, 
and  lay  my  length  upon  wet  stone  doorsteps.  I 
start  back  at  visions  of  posts  looming  up  in  the 
darkness,  and  whitewashed  fences  and  trees,  all 
of  which  would  be  quite  unlikely  to  be  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk,  and  which  disap 
pear  at  the  first  reasonable  thought.  I  run  into 
harmless  passengers  as  if  I  would  knock  the 
breath  of  life  out  of  them,  and  tangle  our  um 
brellas  together  so  fearfully  that  they  spin  round 
and  round  some  time  after  their  separation.  O 
that  umbrella  of  mine !  Sometimes  I  hook  it  in 
the  drooping  branches  of  trees,  and,  losing  my 
hold  in  the  suddenness  of  the  shock,  have  the 
gratification  of  feeling  it  tip  up,  and  go  down 
over  my  shoulder  into  the  mud  behind  me.  Its 
bone  tips  tap  and  scratch  at  the  windows  as  I 
go  by,  and  scrape  against  the  tall  fences,  like 
fingers  trying  to  catch  at  something  to  hold  on 


A    DARK    NIGHT.  61 

by,  and  stop  my  progress.  It  hits  a  low  branch, 
and  its  varnished  handle  slips  through  my 
woollen  gloves,  knocking  my  hat  over  my  eyes, 
and  extinguishing  me  for  the  time  being.  As  if 
the  night  were  not  dark  enough  without! 

My  friends,  I  could  go  on  much  longer  with 
my  complaints,  but  I  feel  that  I  have  drawn 
upon  your  sympathies  sufficiently  for  the  pres 
ent.  You  will  be  as  glad  to  leave  me  at  my 
own  house-door,  as  I  am  to  find  it. 


MISERIES. 

No.  3.  * 


TWINE. 

UNDER  the  general  head  of  string,  I  might 
enumerate  a  long  list  of  this  world's  miseries. 
Shoe-strings  alone  comprehend  an  amount  of 
wretchedness,  which  is  but  feebly  described  in 
the  tragical  story  of  Jemmy  String.  Bonnet- 
strings  and  apron-strings,  dickey-strings  and 
watch-guards,  curtain-cord,  bed-cord,  and  cod- 
line,  each  and  all  have  furnished  enough  dis 
comfort  to  make  out  a  long  grumbling  article. 
But  I  cannot  linger  to  describe  their  treacherous 
desertions  when  their  services  are  most  needed, 
their  unexpected  weakness,  and  their  obstinate 
entanglements  when  time  presses.  A  certain 
pudding-bag  string  is  commemorated  in  one  of 
the  beautiful  couplets  of  Mother  Goose's  Melo 
dies.  I  am  sure  you  cannot  have  forgotten  it, 


TWINE.  63 

nor  the  staring  spotted  cat  that  is  there  repre 
sented  racing  away  with  her  booty.  That  la 
mented  pudding-bag  string  is  but  a  type  of 
strings  in  general.  They  are  fleeting  posses 
sions,  always  hiding,  always  misplaced,  never  in 
order.  You  fit  up  a  string-drawer,  perhaps,  with 
a  fine  assortment,  and  pride  yourself  upon  its 
nice  arrangement.  Go  to  it  a  week  after,  and 
see  if  you  can  find  one  ball  where  you  left  it ! 
Can  you  lay  your  hand  upon  a  single  piece  that 
you  want?  No,  indeed!  Twine  is  considered 
common  property.  If  any  one  has  a  use  for  it, 
he  takes  it  without  leave  or  license,  without  even 
inquiring  who  is  the  owner,  and  you  may  be 
sure  he  will  never  bring  any  of  it  back  again. 
O  the  misery  endured  for  the  want  of  an  errant 
piece  of  twine,  when  you  are  in  a  nervous  hurry 
to  do  up  a  parcel,  some  one  waiting  at  the  door 
meanwhile!  After  an  immense  deal  of  pains, 
you  have  it  at  last  folded  to  your  liking,  with 
every  corner  squared  and  even,  every  wrinkle 
smoothed.  Then,  clasping  tightly  with  one 
hand  the  stiff  wrapper,  you  search  distractedly 
with  the  other  for  a  ball  of  twine,  which  you  dis 
tinctly  remember  tossing  into  the  paper-drawer 
only  the  day  before.  In  vain  you  surround 


64  MISERIES. 

yourself  with  newspaper  and  brown  paper,  and 
useless  rubbish,  tumbling  your  whole  drawer 
into  confusion.  In  vain  you  relinquish  your 
nicely  packed  parcel,  and  see  its  contents  scat 
tered  in  all  directions.  In  vain  you  grumble 
and  scold.  The  ball  is  not  forthcoming.  Your 
little  brother  has  seized  it  to  fly  his  kite,  or  your 
sister  is  even  now  tying  up  her  trailing  morning- 
glories,  or  sweet  peas,  with  the  stolen  booty. 
You  plunge  your  hand  exploringly  into  the 
drawer,  and  bring  up  a  long  roll  wound  thickly 
with  twine  of  all  kinds  and  colors.  Your  eyes 
sparkle  at  the  prize ;  but,  alas !  the  first  energetic 
pull  leaves  in  your  hand  a  piece  about  four  inches 
long,  and  a  quantity  of  dangling  ends  and  rough 
knots  convince  you  that  you  have  nothing  to 
hope  in  that  quarter.  A  second  plunge  brings 
up  a  handful  of  odds  and  ends,  strong  pieces 
clumsy  and  rough,  coarse  red  quill-cord,  delicate 
two-colored  bits  far  too  short,  cotton  twine 
breaking  at  a  touch,  fine  long  pieces  hopelessly 
tangled  together,  so  that  not  even  an  end  is  visi 
ble.  The  more  you  twitch  at  the  loops,  the  more 
desperate  is  the  snarl.  Poor  mortal!  Your 
pride  gives  way  before  the  urgency  of  haste. 
You  send  off  your  nice  packet  miserably  tied  to 
gether  by  two  kinds  of  twine. 


65 


All  the  rest  of  the  day  you  are  tormented  by 
a  superfluity  of  the  very  thing  you  needed  so 
much.  It  was  fm possible  to  get  it  when  you 
wanted  it;  but  now  it  is  pertinaciously  in  your 
way  when  you  do  not  want  it.  You  almost 
break  your  neck  tripping  over  a  long,  firm  cord, 
which  proves  to  be  a  pair  of  reins  left  hanging 
on  a  chair  by  some  careless  urchin.  The  carpet 
and  furniture  are  strewed  with  long,  straggling 
pieces  of  packthread.  You  find  a  white  end 
dangling  conspicuously  from  your  waistcoat 
pocket.  As  you  walk  the  streets  you  see  twine 
flying  from  fences,  or  lying  useless  on  the  side 
walk,  black  with  dust  and  age.  To  crown  the 
whole,  a  friend  comes  with  a  piece  of  twine  ex 
tending  across  two  rooms,  and  asks  you  to  help 
him  twist  and  double  it  into  a  cord.  It  is  a  very 
entertaining  process.  You  amuse  yourself  with 
watching  one  little  rough  place  that  whirls  swift 
ly  round,  stops  with  a  jerk,  turns  hesitatingly 
one  side  and  the  other,  then,  yielding  to  a  new 
impulse,  flies  round  and  round  again  till  you  are 
dizzy.  You  look  with  great  complacency  at  the 
tightening  twist,  now  brought  almost  to.  perfec 
tion.  You  turn  it  carelessly  in  your  fingers, 
scarcely  noticing  its  convulsive  starts  for  free- 
5 


66  MISERIES. 

dom.  Ah !  your  imprudent  friend,  without 
any  warning,  gives  it  a  final  pull  to  stretch  it 
into  shape.  The  twine  slips  from  your  grasp, 
springs  away  across  the  room,  curls  itself  into  a 
succession  of  snarls  and  twisted  loops,  and  then 
lies  motionless.  Your  friend  looks  thunder 
struck.  With  a  hasty  apology,  you  step  forward 
and  tightly  clasp  the  recreant  end.  You  are  in 
nervous  expectation  of  dropping  it  again.  Your 
fingers  are  benumbed  at  the  tips  with  their  tight 
compression,  and  the  constant  twitching.  They 
give  a  sudden  jerk.  You  make  an  involuntary 
clutch  for  the  cord,  but  in  vain.  It  is  rapidly 
untwisting  at  the  very  feet  of  your  companion, 
who  looks  at  it  in  despair.  Again  you  make  an 
attempt  with  no  success  at  all,  the  refractory 
twine  eluding  your  utmost  endeavors  to  hold  it. 
Once  more !  Your  fellow-twister  walks  off  at 
last,  with  a  wretchedly  rough  affair,  which  he 
good  humoredly  says  "  will  do  very  well." 


MISERIES. 
No.  4. 


I  BELIEVE  the  world  has  gone  quite  crazy  on 
the  subject  of  fresh  air.  In  the  next  century 
people  will  think  they  must  sleep  on  the  house 
tops,  I  suppose,  or  camp  out  in  tents  in  primi 
tive  style.  Nothing  is  talked  about  but  ventila 
tors,  and  air-tubes,  and  chimney-draughts.  One 
would  suppose  that  fire-places  were  invented 
expressly  for  cooling  and  airing  a  room,  instead 
of  heating  it.  There  was  no  such  fuss  when  I 
was  young;  in  those  good  old  times  these  airy 
notions  had  not  come  into  fashion.  Where  the 
loose  window-sashes  rattled  at  every  passing 
breeze,  and  the  wind  chased  the  smoke  down 
the  wide-mouthed  chimney,  nobody  complained 
of  being  stifled.  There  were  no  furnaces  then 
to  spread  a  summer  heat  to  every  corner  of  the 


68  MISERIES. 

house.  No,  indeed !  We  ran  shivering  through 
the  long,  windy  entries,  all  wrapped  in  shawls, 
and  hugging  ourselves  to  retain  the  friendly 
warmth  of  the  fire  as  long  as  possible.  Far 
from  devising  ways  of  letting  in  the  air,  we  tried 
hard  to  keep  it  out  by  stuffing  the  cracks  with 
cotton,  and  closely  curtaining  the  windows  and 
bed.  ^Even  then,  the  ice  in  the  wash-basin,  and 
the  electricity  which  made  our  hair  literally 
stand  on  end  in  the  process  of  combing,  and  the 
gradual  transformation  of  fingers  into  thumbs, 
showed  but  too  plainly  that  the  wintry  air  had 
penetrated  our  defences.  When  we  crowded 
joyfully  round  a  crackling,  sparkling  wood-fire, 
even  while  our  faces  glowed  with  the  intense 
heat,  cold  shivers  were  creeping  down  our  backs, 
and  sudden  draughts  from  an  opening  door  set 
our  teeth  chattering.  I  often  wished  myself  on 
a  spit,  to  revolve  slowly  before  the  fire  until 
thoroughly  roasted.  Not  from  any  want  of  air, 
I  assure  you,  we  children  were  always  breaking 
panes  of  glass  on  the  bitterest  days,  and  the 
glazier  was  never  known  to  come  under  a  week 
to  replace  them.  Why  people  should  wish  to 
revive,  and  live  through  again,  the  miseries  of 
such  a  frost-nipped  childhood,  I  cannot  imagine. 


FRESH    AIR. 


69 


I,  for  one,  love  a  snug  house,  even  a  warm  house. 
I  am  of  a  chilly  temperament,  and  subject  to 
rheumatism,  horrible  colds,  &c.  Fresh  air  is  my 
bane.  I  banish  all  books  on  the  subject  from 
my  table.  I  studiously  avoid  all  notorious  fresh- 
air  lovers,  or  try  in  every  way  to  bring  over  the 
poor,  misguided  mortals  to  my  views ;  but  it  is 
of  no  use.  Fresh  air  is  the  fashion,  and  is  run 
to  extremes,  as  all  fashions  must  be.  I  call  in  a 
physician ;  lo !  fresh  air  is  recommended  as  a 
tonic.  I  give  a  party;  of  course  my  windows 
are  all  thrown  open,  and  foolish  young  girls,  in 
the  thinnest  of  white  muslins,  are  standing  in  the 
draught ;  and  such  a  whirlwind  is  raised  by  the 
flirting  of  fans,  and  the  rush  of  the  dancers,  that 
I  am  blown,  like  a  dry  leaf,  into  a  corner,  where 
I  stand  shivering,  and  making  rueful  attempts 
to  appear  smiling  and  hospitable.  I  go  out  to 
pass  a  social  afternoon  with  a  friend,  and  am  set 
down  in  a  room  just  above  the  freezing-point, 
with  a  little  crack  opened  in  the  window,  and  all 
the  doors  flying,  to  change  the, air.  I  ride  in  the 
omnibus,  and  am  almost  choked  with  my  bon 
net-strings,  such  a  furious  draught  meets  me  in 
the  face,  and  when,  with  infinite  pains,  I  have 
secured  the  only  tolerably  warm  corner,  my  next 


70  MISERIES. 

neighbor  becomes  very  faint,  and  must  have  the 
window  open.  Even  the  poor  babies  are  not 
safe  from  this  popular  insanity.  You  may  see 
the  little  victims  any  day,  taking  an  airing,  with 
their  little  red  noses  and  watery  eyes  peeping 
forth  from  under  the  cap  and  feathers.  The  old- 
fashioned  blanket,  in  which  the  baby  was  done 
up  head  and  all,  like  a  bundle,  is  thrown  aside. 
The  child  is  not  quite  so  often  carried  upside 
down.  I  suppose,  under  the  new  system,  but 
what  difference  does  it  make  whether  the  poor 
thing  is  smothered  or  frozen  to  death  ? 

I  never  shall  forget  a  long  journey  I  took  once 
with  a  friend  who  was  raving  mad  on  the  sub 
ject  of  fresh  air  and  cold  water.  Every  morning 
the  windows  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  the 
blinds  flung  back  with  an  energetic  bang,  while 
a  stiff  wintry  wind  whirled  everything  about  the 
room,  and  flapped  the  curtains  against  the  ceil 
ing.  And  there  she  stood,  declaring  herself  ex 
hilarated,  while  her  nose  and  lips  turned  from 
red  to  blue,  and  the  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks. 
I  always  took  to  flight.  Afterwards  the  poor 
auto-martyr  went  out  to  walk  before  breakfast, 
scornfully  rejecting  all  offers  of  furs  and  extra 
wrappings.  O  dear,  no !  She  never  thought  of 


FRESH    AIR.  71 

muffs,  tippets,  snow-boots,  but  as  encumbrances 
fit  for  extreme  old  age  and  infirmity.  She  al 
ways  walked  fast,  and  the  more  the  wind  blew, 
the  warmer  she  felt,  I  might  be  assured.  As 
soon  as  she  had  gone,  I  established  myself  in 
comfort  by  the  side  of  a  glowing  grate,  happy 
but  for  dreading  her  return.  She  came  in  dread 
fully  fresh  and  breezy  from  the  outer  air,  very 
energetic,  very  noisy,  and  fully  bent  upon  stirring 
me  up  and  making  me  take  exercise.  After 
snapping  the  door  open  and  slamming  it  behind 
her  with  a  clap  that  greatly  disturbed  my 
nerves,  she  exclaimed  in  a  stentorian  voice,  "  O 
dear  me !  I  shall  die  in  such  an  oven !  My 
dear  child,  you  have  no  idea  how  hot  it  is!" 
And  the  first  thing  I  knew,  up  would  go  a  win 
dow  with  a  crash  that  made  the  weights  rattle. 
It  might  rain  or  shine ;  weather  made  no  differ 
ence  to  this  inveterate  air-seeker.  Many  a  time 
has  she  come  in  all  dripping,  and  tracking  the 
carpet,  brushed  carelessly  against  me  with  her 
wet  garments,  and  finally  enveloped  me  with  the 
steam  arising  from  them  as  they  hung  around 
my  fire.  It  roused  my  indignation  that  she 
should  make  herself  and  every  body  else  so  un 
comfortable,  and  then  glory  in  the  deed  as  if  it 


72  MISERIES. 

were  indubitably  and  indisputably  praiseworthy. 
She  was  so  good-natured,  however,  and  so  happy 
in  her  delusion,  that  I  could  not  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  remonstrate  very  vehemently,  except 
when  she  would  make  me  listen  to  her  intermi 
nable  lectures  upon  the  importance,  the  necessity, 
of  fresh  air,  and  the  effect  of  a  snug,  cosy  room 
upon  the  blood,  the  heart,  the  lungs,  the  head, 
and  (as  I  verily  believe  she  hinted)  the  temper. 
I  know  I  lost  all  control  of  mine  long  before  she 
finished ;  but  whether  it  was  the  want  of  fresh 
air  in  practice,  or  too  much  of  it  in  theory,  I 
leave  you  to  imagine. 

My  friend  always  carried  a  small  thermometer 
in  her  trunk,  which  she  consulted  a  dozen  times 
an  hour,  in  order  to  regulate  the  temperature 
of  the  room.  Alas  for  me  if  the  quicksilver  rose 
above  60  !  I  devoutly  hoped  she  would  leave  it 
behind  in  some  of  our  numerous  stopping-places, 
and  with  an  eye  to  that  possibility,  I  must  con 
fess,  I  hung  it  in  the  most  out-of-the-way  corners 
I  could  find ;  but  it  seemed  to  be  on  her  mind 
continually.  She  never  forgot  it,  and  always 
packed  it  very  carefully,  too.  I  asked  her  two 
or  three  times  to  let  me  put  it  in  my  trunk,  where 
I  had  slyly  arranged  a  nice  little  place  full  of 


FRESH    AIR.  73 

hard  surfaces  and  sharp  corners,  but  she  always 
had  plenty  of  room. 

I  believe  my  zealous  friend  is  now  residing  at 
the  sea-shore,  freezing  in  the  cold  sea-winds,  and 
losing  her  breath  every  morning  in  the  briny 
wave,  under  the  strange  illusion  that  she  is  im 
proving  her  health. 


FAREWELL. 


THEY  tell  me  my  hat  is  old  ! 

I  scarce  believe  it  so  ; 
But  since  I  'm  uncivilly  told 

The  dear  old  thing  must  go, 
I  bid  thee  farewell,  old  hat, 

Good  hat! 
Farewell  to  thee,  good  old  hat ! 

I  must  soon  to  the  city  hie, 

And  trudge  to  some  horrid  store, 

A  smart  new  tile  to  buy, 

With  a  heart  exceedingly  sore, 

For  I  cast  off  a  long-tried  friend, 

A  close  friend, 

I  'm  ashamed  of  a  trusty  old  friend. 


FAREWELL.  75 

Ah,  let  me  remember  with  tears 

The  day  thou  wast  first  my  own, 
When  I  settled  thee  over  my  ears, 

Then  with  soap-locks  overgrown. 
"  Hurra  for  a  beaver  hat, 

A  sleek  hat ! 
A  cheer  for  a  sleek  beaver  hat !  " 

That  day  is  in  memory  green 

Among  those  that  were  all  of  that  hue ; 
Sweet  days  of  my  youth  !     Ah !  I  've  seen 

But  too  many  since  that  were  blue. 
How  smooth  was  our  front,  my  hat, 

My  first  hat! 
Unbent  were  our  brows,  my  first  hat ! 

The  first  dent,  —  what  a  sorrow  it  was! 

Were  it  only  my  skull  instead  ! 
Indignant  I  think  on  the  cause, 

And  pommel  my  stupid  head. 
I  was  new  to  the  care  of  a  hat, 

A  tall  hat,  — 
Unworthy  to  wear  a  tall  hat. 

The  omnibus  portal,  low-browed, 
Had  ne'er  grazed  my  humble  cap, 


76  FAREWELL. 

But  it  knocked  off  my  beaver  so  proud, 

Which  into  a  puddle  fell  slap. 
Alas  for  my  dignified  hat, 

My  proud  hat ! 
Woe  to  nay  lofty-crowned  hat ! 

It  survived,  but  it  had  a  weak  side, 
And  so  had  its  wearer,  perchance, 

Since  I  left  it  on  stairs  to  abide, 

At  a  house  where  I  went  to  a  dance. 

A  lady  ran  into  my  hat, 

4  My  poor  hat ! 

She  demolished  my  invalid  hat ! 


INNOCENT    SURPRISES. 


I  AM  somewhat  inclined  to  the  opinion,  that, 
if  positive  legislation  coula  be  brought  to  bear 
upon  this  subject,  making  it  a  criminal  offence 
for  one  person  deliberately  to  concoct  and  de 
signedly  to  spring  a  surprise  upon  another,  soci 
ety  would  derive  incalculable  benefit  from  the 
act.  For  the  ordinary  and  inevitable  surprises 
of  every-day  life  are  sufficiently  frequent  and 
startling  to  content  even  the  most  romantic  dis 
position  ;  entirely  dispensing  with  the  necessity 
of  those  artfully  contrived,  embarrassing  little 
plots  which  one's  friends  occasionally  set  in  mo 
tion,  greatly  to  their  own  diversion  and  the  ex 
treme  discomfort  of  the  surprised  unfortunate. 
For  he  who  has  ever  broken  his  skull  on  a 
treacherous  sidewalk,  or  received  from  the  post 
a  dunning  missive  when  he  expected  a  love-let- 


78  INNOCENT    SURPRISES. 

ter,  or  arrived  one  minute  late  at  the  car-station, 
or  taken  a  desperately  bad  bill  in  exchange  for 
good  silver,  or  been  caught  in  a  thunderstorm 
with  white  pantaloons  and  no  umbrella,  knows 
that  the  unavoidable  surprises  of  life  are  in 
themselves  staggerers  of  quite  frequent  occur 
rence,  and  require  not  the  aid  of  human  inven 
tion.  But  the  surprises  which  we  most  dread 
are  not  those  which  naturally  fall  to  us  as  part 
of  the  misfortune  we  are  born  to  inherit;  not 
those  which  result  fcom  unforeseen  accidental 
circumstances,  from  carelessness  on  our  own 
part  or  from  the  folly  of  others,  from  revolutions 
in  the  elements  or  in  the  affairs  of  nations ; 
these  we  can  bear,  by  using  against  them  the 
best  remedies  we  possess,  or  by  viewing  and  en 
during  them  as  wisdom  and  philosophy  teach 
us  to  do.  No ;  our  only  prayer,  in  this  connec 
tion,  is  that  we  may  be  saved  from  our  friends  ; 
not  from  their  carelessness,  but  from  their  delib 
erate  schemes  against  our  security. 

In  order  to  reconcile  this  apparent  contradic 
tion  in  terms,  take  the  following  instance  of  a 
friendly  propensity.  You  walk  into  your  house 
at  dusky  twilight,  at  that  particular  hour  of  even 
ing  at  which  your  own  brother^  if  he  be  a  reason- 


INNOCENT    SURPRISES.  79 

able  being,  would  not  expect  you  to  recognize 
him  ;  one  of  your  family  extends  his  (or  her) 
head  from  the  parlor,  and  calls  upon  you  at 
once  to  enter,  and  greet  "an'old  friend."  You 
obey,  and  are  immediately  confronted  with  an 
individual  whose  countenance  wears  an  expres 
sion  associated  with  some  reminiscences  of  your 
youth,  but  so  dim  and  undefined  is  it,  that  you 
cannot,  for  the  life  of  you,  give  it  its  appropriate 
name  or  place.  What  is  to  be  done?  The 
recollections  of  early  childhood  are  expected 
spontaneously  to  burst  forth  from  under  a  heap 
of  later  and  more  vivid  associations,  and  the 
name,  residence,  business,  and  whole  history  of 
the  unwelcome  guest  are  called  upon  to  suggest 
themselves  within  a  second's  time. 

After  a  long  moment  of  painful  hesitation, 
during  which  you  have  in  vain  tried  to  stare  his 
name  out  of  him,  you  clutch  at  a  struggling  idea, 
and  blurt  out  the  name  of  one  of  your  former 
associates.  You  do  this,  not  by  any  means  be 
cause  common  sense  or  conviction  suggest  the 
course,  but  simply  because  something  must  in 
stantly  be  done.  The  result,  of  course,  is,  that 
you  hit  upon  the  wrong  name;  and  now  your 
kind  friends  can  do  no  more  for  you ;  even  if 


80  INNOCENT    SURPRISES. 

they  rush  to  the  rescue,  and  formally  introduce 
the  stranger,  it  is  of  no  avail.  The  deed  is 
done ;  you  are  placed  in  a  position  of  awkward 
mortification,  which  both  the  stranger  and  your 
self  will  never  forget,  and  never  cease  to  regret. 

Why  it  is  that  the  feeling  of  shame  which 
follows  upon  such  mishaps  attaches  itself  exclu 
sively  to  the  innocent  sufferers,  rather  than  to 
those  who  are  the  cause  of  the  suffering,  I  never 
could  understand.  This  kind  of  diversion  be 
trays  a  want  of  humane  consideration  in  the 
contriver.  It  is  infinitely  more  cruel  and  un- 
amiable  than  Spanish  bull-baitings,  or  the  gladi 
atorial  shows  of  the  ancients,  inasmuch  as  a 
shock  to  the  finest  feelings  of  human  nature  is 
harder  to  bear,  and  longer  in  duration,  than  the 
momentary  pang  induced  by  witnessing  a  mere 
ly  physical  suffering. 


THE    OLD    SAILOR. 


IN  my  school  vacations  I  used  occasionally  to 
visit  an  old  sailor  friend,  a  man  of  uncommon 
natural  gifts,  and  that  varied  experience  of  life 
which  does  so  much  to  supply  the  want  of  other 
means  of  education.  He  must  have  been  a 
handsome  man  in  his  youth,  and  though  time 
and  hardship  had  done  their  utmost  to  make  a 
ruin  of  his  bold  features,  and  had  made  it  need 
ful  to  braid  his  still  jetty  black  locks  together  to 
cover  his  bald  crown,  his  was  a  fine,  striking 
head  yet,  to  my  boyish  fancy.  I  loved  to  sit  at 
his  feet,  and  hear  him  tell  the  events  of  sixty 
years  of  toil  and  danger,  suffering  and  well- 
earned  joy,  as  he  leaned  with  both  hands  upon 
his  stout  staff,  his  body  swaying  with  the  ear 
nestness  of  his  speech.  His  labors  and  perils 
were  now  ended,  and  in  his  age  and  infirmity  he 
6 


82  THE    OLD    SAILOR. 

had  found  a  quiet  haven.  He  had  built  a  small 
house  by  the  side  of  the  home  of  his  childhood, 
and  his  son,  who  followed  his  father's  vocation, 
lived  under  the  same  roof.  This  son  and  two 
daughters  were  all  that  remained  to  him  of  a 
large  family. 

"  An  easterly  bank  and  a  westerly  glim  are 
certain  signs  of  a  wet  skin  !  "  said  the  fisherman, 
pointing  to  the  heavy  black  masses  of  cloud  that 
hung  over  the  eastern  horizon,  one  morning 
when  I  had  risen  at  sunrise  for  a  day's  fishing. 
«'T  won't  do;  don't  go  out  to-day!  There's 
soon  such  a  breeze  off  shore,  as,  with  the  heavy 
chop,  would  make  you  sick  enough!  Besides, 
the  old  dory  won't  put  up  with  such  a  storm  as 
is  coming.  No  fishing,  my  boy,  to-day." 

His  old  father  said,  "  Stephen  is  right.  There 
is  a  blow  brewing."  And  he  came  to  look, 
leaning  on  his  cane.  "  Stay  in  to-day."  - 

I  yielded,  and  the  sky  during  the  morning 
slowly  assumed  a  dull,  leaden  hue.  The  storm 
came  on  in  the  afternoon,  heavily  pattering,  and 
pouring,  and  blowing  against  the  windows,  and 
obscuring  the  little  light  of  an  autumn  twilight. 
I  wandered  through  the  few  small  rooms  of  the 
cottage,  endeavoring  to  amuse  myself,  while  the 


THE    OLD    SAILOR. 


83 


light  lasted,  with  two  funeral  sermons  and  an 
old  newspaper.     Then  I  sat  down  at  a  window, 
and  I  well  remember  the  gloomy  landscape,  seen 
through  the.  rain,  in  the  dusk:  —  the  marsh,  with 
the  creek  dividing  it,  the  bare  round  eminence 
between  the  house  and  the  beach,  or  rather  the 
rocky  cliffs,  and  on  either  side  the  wide,  lonely 
sands,  with  heavy  foam-capped  breakers  rolling 
in  upon  the  shore,  with  a  sound  like  a  solemn 
dirge.     At  a  distance  on  the  left,  half  hidden  by 
the  walnut-trees,  lay  the  ruins  of  a  mill,  which 
had  always  the  air  of  being  haunted.     A  high, 
rocky  hill,  very  nearly  perpendicular  on  the  side 
next  the  house,  was  covered  on  the  sides  and 
top  with  junipers,  pines,  and   other  evergreens. 
As  the  darkness  thickened,  I  left  the  lonely  "best 
room  "  for  the  seat  in  the  large  chimney-corner,  in 
the  kitchen.     The  old  wife  tottered  round,  mak 
ing  preparations  for  the.  evening  meal,  and  mut 
tered  recollections  of  shipwrecks  which  the  storm 
brought  to  her  mind.     Now  and  then  she  would 
go  to  a  window,  turn  back  her  cap-border  from 
her  forehead,  put  her  face  close  to   the   glass, 
shading  off  the  firelight  with  her  hand,  and  gaze 
out  into  the  darkness. 

"  Asa  did  not  go  out  either,  thank  the  good 


84  THE    OLD    SAILOR. 

Father ! "  she  said.  The  dog  whined  piteously. 
"St!  St!  Poor  Scip!  Here,  shall  have  a 
piece!  Good  dog!  A  fearful  night  indeed  it 
is." 

The  two  men  came  in  from  the  barn,  shook 
off  the  wet,  and  drew  near  the  fire. 

"Just  such  a  night,  twenty-nine  years  ago 
come  August,  we  ran  afoul  of  Hatteras.  You 
remember,  old  woman,  how  they  frighted  ye 
about  me,  don't  ye  ?  " 

Amidst  such  reminiscences  we  were  called  to 
supper.  I  remember  being  solemnly  impressed 
when  that  old  man,  bent  with  hardship  and  the 
weight  of  years,  clasped  his  hands  reverently,  and 
in  rude  terms,  but  full  of  meaning,  asked  a  bless 
ing  upon  their  humble  board.  I  remember  the 
flickering  light  from  the  logs  burning  on  the 
hearth,  and  how  it  showed,  upon  the  faces  of 
those  who  sat  there,  a  strong  feeling  of  the  words 
in  which  rose  an  added  petition  in  behalf  of 
those  on  the  mighty  deep. 

Supper  being  ended,  the  old  man  took  down 
the  tobacco-board,  and,  when  he  had  cut  enough 
to  fill  his  pipe,  handed  it  to  his  son,  who,  hav 
ing  done  the  same,  restored  it  to  its  nail  in 
the  chimney-corner.  Then  they  smoked,  and 


THE    OLD    SAILOR. 


85 


talked  of  dangers  braved  and  overcome,  of 
pirates,  and  shipwrecks,  and  escapes,  till  I  in 
voluntarily  drew  closer  into  my  corner,  and 
looked  over  my  shoulder.  Suddenly  the  dog 
under  the  table  gave  a  whining  growl. 

"  I  never  seed  the  like  o'  that  dog,"  exclaimed 
the  fisherman,  turning  to  me.  "  I  thought  he 
was  asleep.  But  if  ever  a  foot  comes  nigh  the 
house  at  night,  he  gives  notice.  Depend  on  it, 
there  's  some  one  coming." 

The  door  of  the  little  entry  opened,  with  a 
rush  of  the  whistling  wind,  and  a  man  stepped 
in.  The  dog  half  rose,  and  though  he  wagged 
his  tail,  in  token  that  he  knew  the  step  to  be 
that  of  a  friend,  he  kept  up  a  low  whine.  A 
young  man,  muffled  to  the  eyes,  and  with  the 
water  dripping  from  his  huge  pea-jacket,  opened 
the  kitchen-door. 

"  William  Crosby,  why,  wrhat  brings  you  out 
in  such  a  storm  as  this  ?  Strip  off  your  coat, 
and  draw  up  to  the  fire,  can't  ye  ?  Where  are 
you  bound,  then,  and  the  night  as  dark  as  a 
wolfs  throat  ?  " 

The  young  fisherman  made  no  answer,  unless 
by  a  motion  of  his  hand.  As  he  turned  back 
the  collar  from  his  face,  we  saw  by  the  waving 


86 


THE    OLD    SAILOR. 


light  that  it  was  pale  as  death.  The  long  wet 
locks  already  lay  upon  his  cheeks,  making  them 
more  ghastly  as  he  struggled  to  speak.  "  O 
Stephen  Lee,  it  's  no  time  to  be  sitting  by  the 
fire,  when  old  Asa  Osborn  is  rolling  in  the  wa 
ters.  A  man  's  drownded ;  and  who  's  to  get 
the  body  for  the  wife  and  the  children  —  God 
pity  them !  —  afore  the  ebb  carries  it  out  to 
sea?" 

The  old  man  drew  his  hand  across  his  fore 
head,  and  rose.  I  looked  at  him  as  he  drew  up 
his  tall  figure,  and  looked  the  young  messenger 
full  in  the  eye.  In  a  low,  deep  whisper,  he  said, 
"  Who,  William,  did  ye  say  ?  You  said  a  man 's 
drownded,  —  but  tell  me  the  name  again." 

"  Yes,  Gran'sir,  I  did  say  it.  Old  Uncle 
Ase  Flernming,  he.  and  the  minister  went  out  a 
fishing  in  the  morning.  The  minister  got  his 
boots  off  in  the  water,  and  after  a  long  time 

he  's  swum  ashore.  But  poor  Uncle  Ase . 

Stephen,  come  along.  His  poor  wife  's  gone 
down  to  the  beach,  now." 

They  left  the  house,  and  I  shut  the  door  after 
them,  and  came  back  softly  to  my  seat  by  the 
old  man's  knee. 

Once  before  I  had  seen  him;  when  a  heavy 


THE    OLD    SAILOR.  87 

sorrow  fell  upon  him.  It  was  on  a  beautiful 
summer's  day,  and  the  open  window  let  in  the 
cool  breeze  from  the  sea.  He  was  sitting  by  it 
in  his  arm-chair,  looking  out  upon  the  calm 
water,  buried  in  thought.  His  favorite  daughter 
had  long  been  very  low,  and  might  sink  away  at 
any  moment.  The  old  dog  was  at  his  feet 
asleep.  The  clock  ticked  in  the  corner,  and  the 
sun  was  shining  upon  the  floor.  Some  friends 
sat  by  in  silence,  with  sorrowful  countenances. 
His  little  grandchild  came  to  his  side,  and  said, 
"  Mother  says,  tell  Grandpa  Aunt  Lucy  's  gone 
home." 

The  old  man  did  not  alter  his  position.  For 
some  time  he  sat  in  deep  thought,  looking  out 
with  unseeing  gaze,  and  winding  his  thumbs,  as 
before.  Of  five  fair  daughters,  three  had  before 
died  by  the  same  disease,  consumption.  He 
had  seen  them  slowly  fade  away,  one  by  one, 
and  had  followed  his  children  to  the  grave 
in  the  secluded  burying-ground,  where  the 
green  sod  was  now  to  be  broken  to  receive  the 
fourth. 

Rising  slowly,  he  walked  across  the  room,  and, 
taking  the  well-worn  family  Bible, returned  with 
it  to  his  seat;  and,  as  he  turned  the  leaves,  he 


88  THE    OLD    SAILOR. 

said  in  a  low  tone  to  himself,  "  There  's  only  one 
left  now !  "  Then  he  sat  entirely  silent,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  sacred  page.  He  did  not 
utter  one  word  of  lamentation,  he  did  not  shed  a 
tear,  but  as  he  turned  his  eye  on  me,  in  passing, 
its  expression  went  to  my  heart.  Stealing  soft 
ly  out,  I  left  him  to  the  silent  Comforter  whose 
blessing  is  on  the  mourner. 

Now  the  scene  was  changed.  One  was  sud 
denly  taken  from  his  side  who  had  been  a  com 
panion  from  boyhood  to  old  age.  They  had 
played  and  worked  in  company ;  together  they 
had  embarked  on  their  first  voyage,  and  their 
last;  and  they  had  settled  down  in  close  neigh 
borhood  in  the  evening  of  their  days.  Each  had 
preserved  the 'other's  life  in  some  moment  of 
peril,  but  took  small  praise  to  himself  for  so 
simple  an  act  of  duty.  Few  words  of  fondness 
had  ever  passed  between  them.  They  had  gone 
along  the  path  of  life,  without  perhaps  being 
conscious  of  any  peculiarly  strong  tie  of  friend 
ship  binding  them  together,  till  they  were  thus 
torn  asunder.  The  death  of  a  daughter,  long 
and  slowly  wasting  away  before  his  eyes,  could 
be  calmly  borne.  But  this  blow  was  wholly  un 
foreseen,  and  his  chest  heavily  rose  and  fell,  and 


THE    OLD    SAILOR.  89 

by  the  bright  firelight  I  saw  tears  rolling  over 
his  weather-beaten  cheeks. 

"A  child  will  weep  a  bramble's  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart ; 
Talk  not  of  grief,  till  thou  hast  seen 
The  hard -drawn  tears  of  bearded  men." 

The  fury  of  the  storm  being  abated,  I  resolved 
to  follow  Stephen  down  to  the  shore.  He  was 
not  in  sight,  and  I  knew  not  what  direction  to 
take.  It  was  a  gloomy  night,  the  transient 
glimpses  of  the  moon  between  driving  masses  of 
clouds  only  making  the  scene  more  wild  and 
appalling.  I  could  see  the  tops  of  the  tall  trees 
bending  under  the  fury  of  the  blast,  ere  it  came 
to  sweep  the  beach.  The  heaving  billows  were 
covered  with  foam,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
and,  rising  and  tumbling,  seemed  striving  with 
each  other  as  they  rolled  on  towards  the  sands. 
I  had  seen  storms  upon  the  ocean  before,  but 
never  had  it  presented  so  awful  and  majestic  an 
appearance.  As  the  breakers  struck  upon  the 
shore,  and  sent  a  huge  mass  of  water  upon  the 
sands,  their  sullen  roar  mingled  with  the  howl 
ing  and  rushing  of  the  wind,  and  filled  me  with 
awe. 


90  THE    OLD    SAILOR. 

There  were  torches  upon  the  beach,  and  as  I 
drew  near,  I  saw  the  fishermen  run  together  to 
one  point.  The  body  had  just  been  washed 
ashore,  and  lay  stretched  upon  the  sands.  The 
head  was  bare,  and  long  locks  of  white  hair 
streamed  down  upon  the  shoulders.  The  heavy 
pea-jacket  was  off  from  one  arm,  as  if  he  had 
endeavored  to  extricate  himself  from  it  in  the 
water.  The  sinewy  arms  lay  powerless  and  free 
from  tension  then,  but  they  told  me  that,  when 
they  first  drew  him  from  the  surf,  both  hands 
were  grasping  a  broken  oar  with  such  strength 
that  they  were  unable  to  loose  his  hold,  till  sud 
denly  the  muscles  relaxed,  and  the  arms  fell  upon 
the  ground.  They  turned  the  body,  and  a  little 
water  ran  from  the  mouth.  Then,  gently  raising 
it  upon  their  shoulders,  they  bore  it  home. 


LAUGHTER. 


IN  some  individuals  the  risibles  lie  so  near 
the  surface  that  you  may  tickle  them  with  a 
feather.  In  others,  they  are  so  deeply  imbedded 
in  phlegm,  or  so  protected  by  the  crust  of  ill- 
humor,  that  a  strong  thrust  and  a  keen  weapon 
are  required  to  reach  them. 

A  laugh  is  in  itself  a  different  thing  in  differ 
ent  individuals.  Some  persons  laugh  inwardly, 
unsocially,  bitterly.  It  is  a  pure  grimace  on 
your  part  when  you  join  in  their  merriment,  un 
less  you  are  superior  to  the  fear  of  ridicule.  On 
the  other  hand,  there  is  a  laugh  of  so  contagious 
a  nature,  that  you  are  irresistibly  moved  to  sym 
pathy  while  ignorant  of  the  exciting  cause,  or 
out  of  the  sphere  of  its  influence.  You  will 
laugh  loud  and  long,  and  afterwards  confess 


* 

92  LAUGHTER. 


that  you  had  not  the  least  gleam  of  a  funny 
idea,  all  the  while. 

You  doubt  the  power  of  the  sympathetic 
laugh  ?  Come  with  me  into  the  nursery.  Here 
is  a  rosy  little  horror,  a  year  and  a  half  old.  Sit 
down  and  take  him  upon  your  knees.  Hold  his 
dimpled  hands  in  yours,  and  look  steadily  into 
his  roguish  eyes.  Repeat  a  nursery  rhyme,  no 
matter  what,  in  a  humdrum  recitative ;  he  is 
sober,  and  very  attentive.  Suddenly  spring  a 
mine  upon  him  with  a  "  Boo!  "  His  "  Hicketty- 
hick ! "  follows,  and  his  eyes  begin  to  shine. 
Repeat  the  experiment.  "  Hicketty-hick  !  "  again, 
more  heartily  than  at  first,  with  the  baby  encore, 
"Adin!"  The  same  process  awakens  the  rap 
turous  little  pearls  again  and  again,  and  you  are 
quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  thing  yourself.  Now 
for  a  more  ecstatic  burst.  You  purposely  pro* 
long  his  suspense;  he  is  all  atilt,  expecting  the 
delightful  surprise.  You  drawl  out  each  word; 
you  drone  the  ditty  over  and  over  again,  till 
every  tiny  nerve  is  tense  with  expectation. 
"  Boo ! "  at  last,  and  over  he  goes,  in  the  com 
plete  abandon  of  baby  glee;  his  cherry  lips  are 
wide  asunder,  his  head  hangs  powerless  back, 
and  the  «  Hicketty-hicks "  burst  tumultuously 


LAUGHTER. 


93 


from  his  little,  beating  throat.  And  you,  sir ; 
what  are  you  doing?  Laughing,  I  declare,  in 
full  roar,  till  the  tears  run  down  your  cheeks. 
You  catch  the  boy  in  your  arms,  toss  him,  al 
most  throttle  him  with  kisses,  and  so  enhance 
the  merry  spasms,  that  mamma,  who  has  a  philo 
sophical  instinct  with  regard  to  excited  nerves, 
and  dreads  the  reaction,  comes  to  the  rescue. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  another  effective 
laughter.  You  shall  not  hear  a  sound,  yet  you 
cannot  choose  but  laugh,  if  she  does,  quiet  as 
she  is  about  it.  See  how  her  shoulders  shake, 
—  and  look  at  her  face !  Every  feature  is  in 
stinct  with  mirth;  the  color  mounts  to  the  roots 
of  the  hair ;  the  curls  vibrate ;  the  eyes  sparkle 
through  tears ;  the  white  teeth  glisten ;  the  very 
nose  and  ears  seem  to  take  a  part;  like  Nour- 
mahal,  she  "laughs  all  over,"  and  while  you 
wonder  what  the  joke  may  be,  you  are  laughing 
too. 

Do  you  feel  dismal,  or  anxious?  You  should 
hear  L.  tell  a  story.  She  is  one  of  the  very  few 
who  can  undertake  with  impunity  to  talk  and 
laugh  at  the  same  time.  Look  and  listen,  while 
she  describes  some  comic  occurrence.  There  is 
no  unladylike,  boisterous  noise,  but  musical 


94  LAUGHTER. 

peals  of  laughter  come  thick  and  fast ;  and  faster 
and  thicker,  preternaturally  fast  and  thick,  come 
the  words  with  them.  And  yet  each  word  is 
distinct;  you  do  not  lose  a  syllable.  And  I 
should  like  to  see  the  man  who  can  resist  her,  if 
she  chooses  he  should  laugh,  even  at  his  own 
expense. 

There  is  an  odd  sort  of  power,  too,  in  the 
gravity  with  which  B.  tells  a  humorous  anecdote. 
He  invariably  maintains  a  sober  face  while 
every  body  is  in  an  agony  of  laughter  around 
him.  Just  as  it  begins  to  subside,  the  echo  of 
his  own  wit  comes  back  to  him,  and,  as  if  he  had 
just  caught  the  idea,  he  bursts  into  one  little 
abrupt  explosion,  so  genuine,  so  full  of  hearti 
ness,  that  it  sets  every  body  off  upon  a  fresh 
score. 

Nothing  so  melts  away  reserve  among  stran 
gers,  nothing  so  quickly  develops  the  affinities  in 
chance  society,  as  laughter.  A  person  might  be 
ever  so  polite,  and  even  kind,  and  talk  sentiment 
a  whole  day,  and  it  would  not  draw  me  so  near 
to  him  as  the  mutual  enjoyment  of  one  heartfelt 
laugh.  It  is  a  perfect  bond  of  union ;  for  the 
time  being,  you  have  but  one  soul  between 
you. 


TO    STEPHEN. 


I  SAW  thee  only  once,  dear  boy,  and  it  may  be,  per 
chance, 
That  ne'er  again  on  earth  my  eyes   shall   meet  thy 

gentle  glance  ;  ^ 

Years  have  gone  by  since  then,  and  thou  no  longer  art 

the  child, 
With  earnest  eye,  and  frolic  laugh,  and  look  so  clear 

and  mild  ; 
For  thee,  the  smiles  and  tears  and  sports  of  infancy  are 

gone, 
And  youth's  bright  promise,  gliding  into  manhood,  has 

come  on ;  — 
And  yet  thine  image,  as  a  child,  will  ever  stay  with 

me, 
As  bright  as  when,  so  long  ago,  I  met  and  welcomed 

thee. 


96  TO    STEPHEN. 

What  was  the  charm  that  lay  enshrined  within  thy 

smiling  eyes  ? 

What  made  me  all  thy  childish,  winning  ways  so  dear 
ly  prize  ? 
It  was  thy  likeness  to  another, — one  whose  looks  of 

love, 
No  longer  blessing   earth,  were  met  by  angel  eyes 

above. 
Yet  thou  hadst  not  the  golden  hair,  the  brow  of  radiant 

white, 
Nor  the  blue  eyes  so  soft  and  deep,  like  violets  dewy 

bright ; 

But  the  smiles  that  played  about  thy  mouth,  the  sweet 
ness  in  thine  eyes, 
The  dimpling  cheek  that  said,  "  Within,  a  sunny  spirit 

lies,"  • 
The  true  and  open  brow,  the  bird-like  voice,  so  free 

and  clear, 
The  glance  that  told,  "  I  have  not  learned  the  meaning 

yet  of  fear," 
And  more  than  all,  the  trusting  heart,  so  lavish  of  its 

treasure, 
In  simple   faith,   its   earnest   love   bestowing   without 

measure  ; 
These,  more  than  lines  and  colors,  made  a  picture, 

warm  and  bright, 
Of  one  whose  face  no  more  might  cheer  and  bless  my 

earthly  sight. 


TO    STEPHEN.  97 

The  nature,  beautiful  and  pure,  Tie  carried  to  the 

skies, 
Has  been  trained  by  angel  teaching,  has  been  watched 

by  seraph  eyes. 
Dear  boy  !  through  this  cold  world  thy  earth-bound  feet 

have  trod  ;  and  now, 
Is  the  loving  heart  still  thine  ?     Hast  kept  that  true'and 

open  brow  ? 


THE    OLD    CHURCH. 


THERE  are  certain  old-fashioned  people  who 
find  fault  with  the  luxuriousness  of  our  churches, 
and  ascribe  to  the  warmth  and  comfort,  which 
contrast  so  strongly  with  the  hardships  of  early 
times,  the  acknowledged  sleepiness  of  modern 
congregations.  For  my  part,  I  see  no  necessary 
connection  between  discomfort  and  devotion. 
My  soul,  at  least,  sympathizes  so  much  with  its 
physical  adjunct,  that,  when  the  latter  is  un 
comfortable,  the  former  is  never  quite  free  and 
active. 

Let  me  call  to  remembrance  the  church  my 
childhood  knew,  with  its  capacious  square  pews, 
in  which  half  the  audience  turned  their  backs 
upon  the  minister;  the  seats  made  to  rise  and 
fall,  for  the  convenience  of  standing,  and  which 
closed  every  prayer  with  a  clap  of  thunder ;  its 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  99 

many  aisles,  like  streets  and  lafies;  the  old 
men's  seats,  and  the  queer  but  venerable  figures 
that  were  seen  in  them,  —  some  with  black-silk 
caps  to  protect  their  bald  heads  from  the  freezing 
draughts  of  air  from  the  porchless  doors ;  the  old 
women's  seats,  on  the  opposite  side;  the  ele 
vated  row  of  pews  round  the  sides  of  the  church, 
and  the  envied  position  of  certain  little  children 
who  had  an  extensive  prospect  through  the  open 
pew-top  within  doors,  and  a  view  of  the  hay- 
scales  and  the  town-pump  through  the  window 
besides.  Those  windows,  in  a  double  row,  with 
the  gallery  between,  —  how  regularly  I  counted 
the  small  panes,  always  forgetting  the  number, 
to  make  the  same  weary  task  necessary  every 
Sunday !  The  singing-seats,  projecting  from 
the  central  portion  of  the  gallery,  furnished  me 
with  another  hebdomadal  study,  in  large  gilt 
letters  of  antique  awkwardness,  which  so  im 
pressed  themselves  on  my  mind  that  I  see  them 
now.  This  was  the  golden  legend:  "BUILT, 
1770.  ENLARGED,  1795."  I  remember  hear 
ing  a  wag  propose  to  add  as  another  remarkable 
fact,  "SCOURED,  1818." 

Opposite   to    the    singing-seats   towered   the 
pulpit,  from  which  the  clergyman  looked  down 


100  THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

upon  us  like"  a  sparrow  upon  the  house-top. 
He  seemed  in  perpetual  danger  of  being  extin 
guished  by  a  huge  sounding-board.  Very  ear 
nestly  I  used  to  gaze  at  the  slender  point  by 
which  it  hung  suspended,  and  wished,  if  it  must 
come  down,  that  I  might  make  the  gilt  orna 
ment  at  the  apex,  resembling  a  vase  turned  up 
side  down,  my  prize.  Under  the  pulpit  was  a 
closet,  which  some  one  veraciously  assured  me 
was  the  place  where  the  tithingman  imprisoned 
incautiously  playful  urchins.  The  terrors  of  that 
dark,  mysterious  cell  had  little  effect  on  my  con 
duct,  however,  as  I  was  not  entirely  convinced  of 
the  existence  of  any  such  lynx-eyed  functionary. 
The  largest  church  in  the  county,  it  was,  how 
ever,  well  filled,  many  of  the  congregation  com 
ing  five  and  some  even  six  miles,  and  remaining 
there  through  the  noon  intermission,  which,  on 
their  account,  was  made  as  short  as  possible. 
But  in  winter  the  vast  airy  space  had  a  peculiar 
and  searching  chill.  No  barn  could  be  colder, 
except  that  the  numerous  footstoves  made  some 
little  change  in  the  air  during  service.  The 
minister  stood  upon  a  heated  slab  of  soap-stone. 
I  used  to  watch  this  in  its  progress  up  the  broad 
aisle  and  the  pulpit  stairs,  under  the  arm  of  the 


THE    OLD    CHURCH.  101 

boy  from  the  parsonage,  and  the  irreverent  way 
in  which  he  made  his  descent,  in  view  of  the 
assembly,  after  depositing  his  burden,  was  thus 
rebuked  by  an  old  lady  who  was  always  droll 
and  quaint.  "  Why,  Matthew,  when  you  come 
down  the  pulpit  stairs  of  a  Sunday,  you  throw 
up  your  heels  like  a  horse  coming  out  of  a  stable- 
door." 

Older  grew  the  church,  and  colder;  and  if 
people  then  staid  at  home  on  Sunday  after 
noons,  they  had  a  better  excuse  for  doing  so  than 
their  successors  can  muster.  The  chorister,  even, 
was  frequently  among  the  missing,  but  was 
charitably  supposed  to  be  subject  to  the  ague. 
Efforts  were  made  to  prevail  upon  the  elderly 
part  of  the  parish  to  permit  the  introduction  of 
stoves  with  long  funnels.  They  scorned  the 
enervating  luxury!  Their  fathers  had  wor 
shipped  in  the  cold,  and  their  sons  might.  But 
ah !  how  degenerate  were  the  descendants  of  the 
noble  old  Puritan  church-goers !  The  services 
curtailed  to  half  their  proper  length,  yet  finding 
the  patience  of  the  listeners  all  too  short !  The 
degenerate  descendants  carried  the  day,  how 
ever,  the  most  bigoted  of  their  opposers  becom 
ing  disabled  by  rheumatism.  The  old  sexton, 


102  THE    OLD    CHURCH. 

resignation  to  inevitable  evils  being  a  lesson  he 
had  had  much  opportunity  to  learn,  submitted 
with  a  good  grace,  though  very  much  of  opinion 
that  fires  in  a  church  were  an  absurdity  and  a 
waste.  The  stoves  were  provided,  and  an  un 
commonly  full  attendance  the  next  Sabbath 
showed  the  very  general  interest  the  matter  had 
excited.  How  would  it  seem  ?  Would  any  one 
faint  ? 

There  was  by  no  means  a  superabundance  of 
heat ;  there  was  something  wrong,  but  the  lack 
of  warmth  was  a  hundred-fold  made  up  in 
smoke.  No  one  could  see  across  the  church, 
and  the  minister  loomed  up,  as  if  in  a  dense 
fog;  all  eyes  were  fountains  of  tears.  At  last 
the  old  sexton  went  with  a  slow  and  subdued 
step  up  to  the  pulpit,  and,  wiping  his  eyes,  re 
spectfully  inquired,  in  a  whisper,  whether  there 
was  not  a  little  too  much  smoke.  This  sugges 
tion  being  very  smilingly  assented  to,  he  pro 
ceeded  to  extinguish  the  fires,  and  for  that  day 
the  services  were  not  indebted  to  artificial 
warmth  to  promote  their  effect. 

How  sad  are  improvements  in  places  to  which 
our  childish  recollections  cling!  The  gushing 
fulness  of  unchilled  love  is  lavished  even  on  in- 


THE    OLD    CHURCH. 


103 


animate  and  senseless  things,  in  a  happy  child 
hood.  How  was  my  heart  grieved  when  the  old- 
fashioned  meeting-house  was  converted  into  the 
modern  temple !  Time  and  decay  had  rendered 
the  tall  spire  unsafe,  yet  its  fall  by  force  and  pre 
meditated  purpose  seemed  a  sacrilege.  I  felt 
affronted  for  the  huge  weathercock,  reclining 
sulkily  against  a  fence,  no  more  to  point  his 
beak  to  the  east  with  obstinate  preference.  I 
mourned  over  the  broad,  old-fashioned  dial,  on 
which  young  eyes  could  discern  the  time  a  mile 
off.  The  old  sexton  lived  to  see  this  change, 
and  at  the  end  of  half  a  century  of  care  under 
that  venerable  roof  he  went  to  his  rest.  The 
beloved  minister,  and  many,  many  who  sat  with 
trustful  and  devoted  hearts  under  his  teachings, 
are  gone  to  their  reward.  A  board  from  the  old 
pulpit,  a  piece  of  the  red-damask  curtain,  and 
the  long  wished-for  gold  vase,  are  now  in  my 
possession. 


SOMETHING  THAN  BEAUTY  DEARER.1 


You  ask  me  if  her  eyes  are  fair, 

And  touched  with  heaven's  own  blue, 

And  if  I  can  her  cheek  compare 
To  the  blush-rose's  hue  ? 

Her  clear  eye  sheds  a  constant  gleam 

Of  truth  and  purest  love, 
And  wit  and  reason  from  it  beam, 

Like  the  light  of  the  stars  above. 
Good-humor,  mirth,  and  fancy  throng 

The  dimples  of  her  cheek, 
And  to  condemn  the  oppressor's  wrong 

Her  indignant  blush  doth  speak. 


"  SOMETHING    THAN    BEAUTY    DEARER."       105 

You  ask  me  if  her  form  is  light 

And  graceful  as  the  fawn  ; 
You  ask  me  if  her  tresses  bright 

Are  like  the  golden  dawn  ? 

Her  step  is  light  on  an  errand  of  love, 

Scarce  doth  she  touch  the  earth, 
And  in  graceful  kindness  doth  she  move 

Around  her  father's  hearth  ; 
And  when  to  bless  his  child  he  bends, 

His  comfort  and  delight, 
The  silver  with  her  dark  hair  blends, 

Like  a  crown  of  holy  light. 


A    TALE 

FOUND  IN   THE   REPOSITORIES  OF  THE  ABBOTS  OF  THE 
MIDDLE  AGES. 


SWEPT  from  his  saddle  by  a  low  branch, 
Count  Robert  lay  stunned  upon  the  ground. 
The  hunting-party  swept  on,  the  riderless  steed 
galloping  wildly  among  them.  No  man  turned 
back;  not  one  loved  the  Count  better  than  his 
sport. 

There  came  to  the  spot  a  man  in  a  wood 
man's  garb,  yet  of  a  knightly  and  noble  aspect. 
He  bent  over  the  fallen  man,  and  bathed  his 
temples,  turning  back  the  heavy,  clustering  locks. 
The  Count,  opening  his  eyes,  gazed  on  hirn  at 
first  without  surprise;  he  thought  himself  at 
home,  however  he  came  there,  so  familiar  was 
the  face. 

Then  did  the  woodman  embrace   him  with 


A    TALE.  107 

tears,  crying,  "  My  brother,  O  my  brother !  it  is  I ! 
it  is  Richard ! " 

"  Thou  in  England ! "  cried  the  Count.  "  Art 
thou  mad  ?  "  And  he  frowned  gloomily. 

"Fear  not  .for  me,"  replied  the  exile,  tenderly 
raising  the  Count  from  the  ground. 

A  narrow  path  wound  through  the  wood  to  a 
ruined  hermitage.  The  outlaw  here  prepared  a 
bed  of  leaves  for  the  Count,  laid  him  softly  there 
on,  and  went  to  seek  some  refreshment.  His 
loved  brother  might  revive,  and  yet  smile  kindly 
on  the  playmate  of  his  youth,  though  under  a  ban. 

When  Richard  returned,  there  followed  him 
like  a  dog  a  horse  of  the  North-country  breed, 
shaggy,  and  in  size  not  much  greater  than  a 
stag-hound.  Robert  viewed  him  with  surprise, 
and  it  seemed  with  derision. 

"  Despise  not  him  who  is  able  to  bear  thee 
out  of  the  wood,"  said  Richard.  "  Thou  art 
faint ;  here  is  wine,  and  of  no  mean  vintage." 

Robert  drank  from  the  earthen  bottle,  and  his 
eye  grew  brighter,  yet  looked  it  not  the  more 
lovingly  on  Richard.  He  ate  right  gladly  of  the 
store  of  the  landless  and  penniless,  —  dried  veni 
son  and  oaten  bread,  —  and  was  refreshed,  yet 
thanked  him  not.  Richard  gave  fragments  to 


108  A    TALE. 

the  neighing  steed.  He  ate  no  morsel  himself, 
nor  tasted  the  wine.  His  heart  was  full  to 
bursting. 

"  Tell  me  of  home,  —  of — of  our  father,"  he 
said,  at  last,  with  deep,  strong  sobs. 

"  On  the  morrow,  on  the  morrow,"  said  Rob 
ert,  disposing  himself  for  sleep.  "  Thou  wilt 
hear  soon  enough." 

But  Richard  seized  him  wildly  by  the  shoul 
der,  and  bade  him  tell  the  worst. 

"  Nay,  then,  if  thou  wilt  know,  he  is  dead.  I, 
thy  younger  brother,  am  now  thy  superior." 

"  For  that  I  care  not.  As  well  thou,  as  I,  to 
sit  in  my  father's  seat.  But  oh !  left  he  no  bless 
ing  for  me  ?  Did  he  not  at  the  last  believe  me 
the  victim  of  calumfiy  ?  —  Alas !  No  word  ? 
Not  one  dying  thought  of  Richard  ?  " 

"  He  died  suddenly." 

Richard  wept  long  and  bitterly,  and  when, 
with  faltering  tongue,  he  asked  tidings  of  his 
betrothed,  his  face  was  covered;  he  saw  not  the 
guilty  flush  upon  his  brother's  brow,  for  that  he 
had  spread  a  lying  report  of  the  exile's  death. 

"  Would  Bertha  still  brave  the  king's  displeas 
ure  ?  Was  she  yet  true  to  the  unfortunate  ?  " 

"Bertha  is  a  very  woman.     She  hath  forgot- 


A    TALE.  109 

ten  the  absent  lover,  and  chosen  another,  and  a 
better  man." 

"  Who,  who  hath  supplanted  me  ? "  cried 
Richard  fiercely,  and  springing  upon  his  feet. 

"  I  tell  thee  "hot,  lest  thou  wreak  on  him  thy 
spite  against  thy  faithless  fair." 

"  Know  that  Bertha's  choice,  though  a  traitor, 
is  safe  from  me,  even  were  I,  as  I  was,  a  man  to 
meet  a  knight  on  equal  terms." 

His  generous  heart  could  not  dream  of  frater 
nal  treachery.  And  when  his  rival  saw  this,  and 
that  he  suspected  him  not  as  yet,  he  smiled  to 
himself,  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  closed 
his  eyes,  if  so  be  he  might  cut  off  further  ques 
tion.  Soon,  falling  into  slumber,  he  clenched  his 
hands,  and  ground  his  teeth.  The  sleep  of  a 
traitor  is  ever  haunted  by  uneasy  dreams,  and 
dark  shadows  of  coming  doom  fell  upon  his 
spirit. 

Richard  watched  till  dawn.  Sometimes  he 
started  up  to  walk  to  and  fro,  beating  his  bosom, 
and  wringing  his  hands  in  agony.  Anon  he 
threw  himself  prostrate  in  the  stupor  of  despair. 
At  the  first  carol  of  birds  in  the  forest,  sleep  sur 
prised  his  weary  senses,  and  the  peace  of  the  in 
nocent  settled  upon  his  features. 


110 


A    TALE. 


Side  by  side  lay  the  brothers,  alike  in  form, 
alike  even  in  feature.  But  in  heart  they  bore  no 
mark  of  the  resemblance  of  kindred.  Envy  of 
the  elder-born  early  possessed  the  soul  of  Robert, 
like  "a  base  fiend ;  first  had  it  driven  thence  love, 
and  lastly  honor. 

Does  no  one  seek  for  the  absent  lord  of  the 
castle,  while  the  weary  hunters  return  to  be  his 
guests  ?  Keeps  no  one  anxious  vigil,  the  live 
long  night  ?  The  unloving  is  not  loved.  But 
he  hath  a  king  beneath  his  roof;  a  king  and 
lords  of  high  degree  sit  at  the  morning  board, 
and  shall  none  but  vassals  be  hospitably  proud 
and  busy? 

Ladies  of  rank  were  there,  and  among  them, 
pale  and  silent,  sat  Bertha,  looking  on  the  king, 
it  seemed,  with  an  upbraiding  eye.  An  angry 
gloom  sat  upon  his  grimly  compressed  lips,  and 
sadness  was  upon  his  brow ;  for  kingly  power  was 
naught,  since  remorse  could  not  undo  a  wrong 
done  to  one  who  no  longer  lived,  and  vengeance 
could  not  reach  its  absent  object.  Richard's  in 
nocence  had  come  to  light,  and  Robert,  albeit  he 
knew  it  not,  was  now  the  dishonored  outlaw. 

Ere  the  clock  of  the  distant  minster  rung  the 
hour  of  ten,  the  royal  cavalcade  wound  from  the 


A    TALE. 


Ill 


gates  of  the  castle.  At  the  same  hour  Count 
Robert  awoke,  and  saw  that  the  sun  was  already 
very  high.  It  shone  upon  the  calm  face  of  Rich 
ard,  tempered  with  quivering  shadows  from  the 
leafy  canopy  above. 

"Up,  brother  Richard! "  cried  the  Count ;  "thou 
wast  ever  a  sluggard."  And  Richard,  at  his  bid 
ding,  filled  his  hunting-pouch  with  provisions 
for  the  way,  and  went  before,  leading  the  little 
Northern  nag,  which  the  Count  bestrode.  He 
bore  himself  bravely  under  the  weight  of  a  rider 
whose  feet  nearly  grazed  the  turf  on  each  side. 

Slowly  they  wound  through  the  tangled  wood. 
"  Stay,  I  will  lighten  thy  burden  for  thee,"  said 
Robert,  "  if  thou  hast  not  left  the  bottle  behind. 
Here  's  to  the  fair  Bertha.  What,  thou  wilt  not 
drink?  Then  thou  hast  resigned  her;  —  she  is 
not  worth  a  thought.  Thou  wilt  not  peril 
thy  life  to  see  her  again,  the  false  one  who 
careth  not  for  thee.  Now  depart,  and  when  the 
king's  wrath  is  overpast,  I  will  beseech  him  for 
thee.  Leave  thy  cause  in  a  brother's  hands." 
But  Richard  went  not  back,  though,  when  they 
came  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  they  beheld  the 
king's  train  advancing  in  the  broad  highway. 

"  Fly,  Richard  ;  escape  while  thou  mayest !  " 


112  A    TALE. 

cried  Robert,  yet  offered  he  not  the  horse  for  the 
greater  speed.  "  Found  on  English  ground, 
thou  diest  a  felon's  death.  Disgrace  not  thy 
family.  Carest  thou  not  for  life?"  he  cried, 
pursuing  Richard,  who  stinted  not,  nor  stayed, 
at  the  sight  of  the  king,  but  the  rather  hasted 
forward. 

"  What  is  life  to  me  ?  "  said  Richard.  "  Let 
the  king  do  with  me  as  he  will."  He  strode  on 
ward  proudly,  with  folded  arms,  offering  himself 
to  the  view  of  Edward,  who  as  yet  saw  him  not, 
or  only  as  a  forester. 

"  Halt  at  least  that  I  may  spur  on  and  implore 
for  thee,"  said  Robert,  for  he  hoped  that  he 
might  deliver  him  a  prisoner  to  some  one  in  at 
tendance,  that  he  should  not  come  to  speech  of 
the  king. 

With  this  wily  purpose,  he  galloped  forward. 
A  shout  arose,  "  The  traitor !  The  traitor ! " 
He  was  made  prisoner  by  no  gentle  hands,  and, 
at  a  nod  from  the  king,  found  himself  led  away 
to  the  rear,  but  not  far  removed. 

He  looked  about  for  Richard.  Could  he  not 
yet  wave  him  back  ?  Should  the  king  see  that 
noble  face,  he  must  be  moved  to  mercy,  at  least 
so  far  as  to  give  him  audience.  The  brothers 


A    TALE.  113 

know  not  yet  that  all  is  reversed.  Robert  sees  a 
man  in  russet  clothing  kneel  at  the  king's  stir 
rup  ;  he  sees  the  royal  hand  extended  to  raise 
him ;  he  sees  many  press  forward  eager  to  wel 
come  the  wanderer.  He  turns  away,  sick  at  the 
sight. 

One  look  more.  Bertha  has  thrown  herself 
into  the  arms  of  his  hated  brother.  He  tears  his 
beard ;  he  curses  his  own  natal  day,  and  the 
stars  that  presided  over  his  birth  and  destiny. 

Yet  must  he  look  once  more,  though  to  an 
envious  soul  the  sight  of  a  brother's  happiness 
is  like  the  torment  of  purgatorial  fire.  Richard 
is  standing  with  his  hand  extended  towards 
him.  He  is  pleading  the  cause  of  the  mean 
and  cowardly  enemy  who  betrayed  him.  He 
pities  and  forgives  him ;  he  even  loves  him 
still,  for  is  he  not  his  brother  ?  As  the  eyes  of 
the  king  and  of  all  the  surrounding  crowd  are 
turned  on  him,  burning  shame  subdues  the  war 
ring  passions  that  fill  the  heart  of  Robert,  and  a 
faint  emotion  of  gratitude  brings  a  tear  to  fall 
upon  his  hot  cheek.  Something  of  old,  childish 
love  awakes  in  his  bosom,  like  dew  in  a  dry 
land. 

The  king  granted  Richard's  prayer,  the  more 


114  A    TALE. 

readily  because  his  anger  was  smothered  by  con 
tempt.  The  title  and  inheritance  returned  to  the 
heir,  who  was  worthy  his  ancient  name.  Robert, 
to  the  day  of  his  death,  lived  on  his  brother's 
bounty,  harmless,  the  rather  that  the  king's  de 
cree  had  gone  forth  that  in  no  case  should  he  be 
Richard's  successor,  or  inherit  aught  from  him. 


NOTE.  —  Here  ends  the  tale,  but  by  patient 
research  we  have  discovered  one  verse  of  an 
ancient  ballad,  supposed  to  have  the  same  tradi 
tion  for  its  subject.  It  is  preserved  in  a  curious 
collection  of  fragmentary  poetry,  to  be  found  in 
most  private  libraries,  and,  in  its  more  ancient 
and  valuable  editions,  in  the  repositories  of  anti 
quaries.  It  stands,  in  the  modern  copy  which 
we  possess,  as  follows  :  — 

Richard  and  Robert  were  two  pretty  men ; 
Both  laid  abed  till  the  clock  struck  ten. 
Up  jumps  Robert,  and  looks  at  the  sky ; 
"  Oho,  brother  Richard,  the  sun 's  very  high  ! 
You  go  before,  with  the  bottle  and  bag, 
And  I  '11  come  behind,  on  little  Jack  nag." 


THE    SEA. 


"  We  sent  him  to  school,  we  set  him  to  learn  a  trade,  we  sent  him  far  back 
into  the  country  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use,  he  must  go  to  sea."  — THE  GRAND 
MOTHER'S  STORY. 


A  CHILD  was  ever  haunted  by  a  thought  of  mystery, 

Of  the  dark,  shoreless,  desolate,  heaving  and  moaning 
sea, 

Which  round  about  the  cold,  still  earth  goes  drifting  to 
and  fro, 

As  a  mother,  holding  her  dead  child,  swayeth  herself 
with  woe. 

In  all  the  jar  and  bustle  and  hurrying  of  trade, 

Through  the  hoarse,  distracting  din  by  rattling  pave 
ments  made, 

There  sounded   ever  in  his   ear   a  low  and   solemn 
moan, 

And  his  soul  grew  sick  with  listening  to  that  deep  un 
dertone. 

He  wandered  from  the  busy  streets,  he  wandered  far 
away, 


116  THE    SEA. 

To  where  the  dim  old  forest  stands,  and  in  its  shadows 

lay, 
And   listened   to  the  song  it  sang;  but  its  murmurs 

seemed  to  be 
The  whispered  echo  of  the  sad,  sweet  warbling  of  the 

sea. 
His  soul  grew  sick  with  longing,  and  shadowy  and 

dim 
Seemed  all  the  beauty  of  the  land,  and  all  its  joys,  to 

him,  — 
Its  mountains  vast,  its  forests  old.      He  only  longed 

to  be 

Away  upon  the  measureless,  unfathomed,  restless  sea. 
Thither  he  went.     The  foam-capped  waves  yet  beat 

upon  the  strand, 

With  a  low  and  solemn  murmuring  that  none  may  un 
derstand  ; 

And  he  lieth  drifting  to  and  fro,  amid  the  ocean's  roar, 
With  the  drifting  tide  he  loved  to  hear,  but  shall,  hear 

never  more. 

And  thus  we  all  are  haunted,  —  there  soundeth  in 

our  ear, 
A  low  and  restless  moaning,  that  we  struggle  not  to 

hear. 
Yet  still  it  soundeth,  the  faint  cry  of  the  dark  deeps  of 

the  soul, — 


THE    SEA.  117 

Dark,  barren,  restless,  as  the  sea  which  doth  for  ever 

roll 
Hither  and  thither,  bearing  still  some  half-shaped  form 

of  good, 

The  flickering  shadow  of  the  moon  upon  the  "  moon- 
led  flood." 

And  ever,  'mid  all  the  joys  and  weary  cares  of  life, 
Through  the  dull  sleep  of  sluggishness,  and  clangor  of 

the  strife, 

We  hear  the  low,  deep  murmuring  of  that  Infinity 
Which  stretcheth  round  us  dim  and  vast,  as  wraps  the 

earth  the  sea. 

And  in  the  twilight  dimness,  in  silence  and  alone, 
The  soul  is  almost  startled  by  the  power  of  its  solemn 

tone. 

When  we  view  the  fairest  works  of  Nature  and  of  Art, 
They  ever  fill  with  longings,  never  satisfy,  the  heart ; 
But,  like  the  lines  of  weed  and  shells  that  stretch  along 

the  beach, 
An'd  show  how  far  the  flowing  tide  and  the  high  waters 

reach, 
They  seem  like  barriers  to  hold  back,  like  weedy  lines, 

to  show 
How  far  into  this  busy  world  the  waves  of  beauty 

flow. 
Yet  when  sweet  strains  of  music  rise  about  us,  float, 

and  play, 


118  THE    SEA. 

We  almost  dream  these  barriers  of  sense  are  broken 

away, 
And  that  the  beauty  bound   before  is  floating   round 

us,  free 

As  the  bright,  glancing  waters  of  the  ever-playing  sea. 
And  for  a  little  moment,  the  spirit  seems  to  stand 
With  naked,  wave-washed  feet  almost  upon  the  strand. 
But  when  she  stoops  to  reach  the  wave,  the  waters 

glide  away, 
And  whisper  in  an  unknown  tongue, —  she  hears  not 

what  they  say. 


FASHION. 


WHY  is  it  that  the  introduction  of  a  really 
graceful  fashion  is  generally  met  with  ridicule 
and  opposition,  while  ugly  modes  are  adopted 
with  grave  acquiescence  and  reverent  submis 
sion? 

"  Seest  thou  not  what  a  deformed  thief  this 
Fashion  is  ?  "  "I  know  that  Deformed ;  he  goes 
up  and  down  like  a  gentleman."  Yes,  we  all 
know  Deformed.  When  any  of  his  family  come 
to  us,  from  England  or  France  or  any  foreign 
country,  we  recognize  the  hideous  brotherhood, 
and  extend  our  welcoming  hands ;  but  Graceful 
must  stay  with  us  a  long  time  to  be  greeted 
kindly,  and  her  sisters  from  foreign  parts  are 
coldly  looked  upon,  or  dismissed  at  once. 

To  begin  at  the  top,  —  "the  very  head  and 
front  of  the  offending."  A  gentleman  goes  into 


120  FASHION. 

a  fashionable  hatter's,  and  the  shopman,  holding 
up  for  admiration  a  hat  with  a  crown  a  foot 
high,  of  the  genuine  stove-pipe  form,  and  a  brim 
an  inch  wide,  says,  "  This  is  the  newest  style, 
Sir."  The  gentleman  walks  home  with  the  ugly 
thing  on  his  head,  but  no  one  stares  or  laughs. 
'Tis  a  new  fashion,  but  all  "take  it  easy."  A 
year  later,  perhaps,  the  hatter  shows  him  a  thing 
with  a  brim  a  half  an  inch  wider,  but  rolled  up 
at  the  sides,  and  a  crown  of  a  much  greater 
diameter  at  the  top  than  where  it  joins  the  brim, 
—  a  specimen  of  the  bell-crown.  This  is  solemn 
ly  donned,  and  the  wearer  has  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  that  the  head-gear  of  all  his  friends  is 
as  hideous  as  his  own.  The  inverted  cone  is 
worn  with  a  sweet,  Malvolio  smile.  And  so 
"  Deformed  "  has  ruled  the  head  of  man  for  as 
many  years  as  any  of  us  can  number,  only  ring 
ing  the  changes,  from  one  year  to  another,  upon 
the  three  degrees  of  comparison  of  the  word 


But  a  change  takes  place  ;  a  light,  graceful, 
low-crowned  hat,  with  a  brim  wide  enough  for 
shelter  or  for  shade,  begins  to  appear  as  a  fash 
ion;  —  and  how  is  it  received?  The  clergyman 
thinks  it  would  be  very  unclerical  for  him  to 


FASHION.  121 

wear  it,  though  it  may  be  as  black,  and  is  as 
modest,  as  the  rest  of  his  apparel.  The  young 
doctor  timidly  tries  it  on,  and  in  his  first  walk 
meets  the  wealthy  hypochondriac,  his  favorite 
patient,  and  the  one  who  is  trying  to  introduce 
him  to  practice,  who  seriously  advises  him,  as  a 
friend,  not  to  wear  that  new-fangled  thing,  —  if 
the  poor  hat  had  only  been  ugly,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  bad  in  its  new-fangled  quali 
ty,  —  as  all  his  respectable  patients  will  leave  him 
if  he  dresses  so  like  a  fool.  The  young  lawyer 
gets  one,  because  he  heard  an  old  lady  speak  of 
"  those  impudent-looking  hats,"  and  he  is  in 
hopes  that  impudence,  which  he  understands  is 
all-important  in  his  profession,  and  which  he  is 
conscious  of  not  possessing,  may  come  with  the 
hat.  A  lady  goes  out  with  her  son,  who  is  just 
old  enough  to  have  gained  a  coat,  and  is  looking 
for  his  first  hat.  The  mother  has  taste  and 
judgment,  and  the  youth  has  yet  some  unper- 
verted  affinity  with  graceful  forms  left,  and  so 
they  choose  and  buy  one  of  these  comfortable 
and  elegant  chapeaux.  Just  before  they  reach 
home,  they  meet  one  of  their  best  friends,  a  per 
son  whom  the  lady  regards  most  kindly,  and  the 
young  man  admires  and  respects,  and  he  greets 


122  FASHION. 

him  with,  "  Why,  Tom !  have  you  got  one  of 
those  rowdy  hats  ?  "  And  so  the  stiff,  stove-pipe 
monstrosity  keeps  its  place,  and  the  only  pleas 
ant,  sensible,  graceful,  becoming  hat  that  the 
nineteenth  century  has  known,  is  called  all  sorts 
of  bad  names,  and  quiet  gentlemen  are  afraid  to 
wear  it. 

Has  it  not  been  the  fate  of  the  shawl,  too,  the 
most  simple  and  elegant  wrapper,  and  comforta 
ble  withal,  that  a  man  can  throw  around  him, 
to  be  scouted  and  flouted  ? 

Yes,  Deformed !  Come  on  next  winter  with 
a  white  surtout  in  your  hand  that  must  fit  so 
tightly  that  your  victims  can  but  just  screw 
themselves  into  it,  with  a  stiff,  square  collar 
touching  the  ears,  and  seven  capes,  one  over  the 
other,  "  small  by  degrees  and  beautifully  less," 
and  all  respectable  gentlemen  will  accept  it,  and 
virtuously  frown  down,  as  dandies  or  rowdies, 
those  who  will  not  sacrifice  their  shawls  to  the 
ugly  idol. 


A    GROWL. 


I  KNOW  it  is  generally  considered  decidedly 
boorish  to  utter  complaints  against  the  ladies. 
But  I  am  for  the  present  a  bachelor,  and  in  that 
capacity  claim  freedom  of  speech  as  my  peculiar 
privilege.  In  virtue  of  my  unhappy  position, 
then,  I  proceed  to  utter  the  first  of  a  series  of 
savage  growls,  wishing  the  ladies  to  understand 
me  as  fully  in  earnest  in  this;  that  when  I  growl 
loud,  I  must  be  supposed  to  mean  what  I  growl. 

For  a  month  past,  single  gentlemen  of  every 
description  have  suffered  in  common  with  other 
fancy  stocks,  and  have  remained  hopelessly  be 
low  par.  Those  nice,  trim,  poetical,  and  polite 
young  beaux,  who,  when  no  great  undertaking 
agitates  the  female  mind,  are  treated  with  kind 
ness,  and  sometimes  with  distinction,  by  young 
ladies  of  discretion,  are  now,  as  it  were,  ruthless- 


124  A    GROWL. 

ly  thrust  and  bolted  out  of  the  pale  of  feminine 
society  by  an  awful  demon  who  reigns  supreme, 
—  the  Genius  of  Dress-making.  The  other 
evening,  I  pulled  sixteen  different  bell-handles, 
in  a  gentlemanly  manner,  without  obtaining  ad 
mission  into  any  house  for  the  purpose  of  mak 
ing  a  call;  and  when  I  succeeded  in  making  an 
entrance  at  the  seventeenth  door  by  falsely  rep 
resenting  myself  as  the  agent  of  a  dry-goods 
dealer,  with  a  large  box  of  patterns  under  my 
arm,  I  found  the  ladies  in  close  conference  with 
three  dress-makers,  studying  a  fashion-plate  with 
an  assiduity  worthy  of  a  better  cause.  A  friend 
of  mine,  who  has  hitherto  enjoyed  the  privilege 
of  dining  every  day  with  six  ladies,  and  has  de 
rived  from  their  society  great  pleasure  and  profit, 
informed  me  yesterday,  with  a  tear  in  each  eye, 
that  he  had  left  the  house  for  ever,  the  conversa 
tion  being  always  turned  upon  topics  with 
which  he  is  utterly  unacquainted,  and  conducted 
in  a  language  which  is  about  as  intelligible  to 
him  as  the  most  abstruse  Japanese  or  the  most 
classic  Law- Latin. 

If  we  are  so  fortunate  as  to  obtain,  by  any 
stratagem,  admission  to  hall  or  anteroom,  in  the 
mansions  of  our  fair  friends,  our  olfactories  are 


A    GROWL.  125 

regaled  with  a  fragrance  which  we  instinctively 
associate  with  tailors'  shops,  and  which,  I  am 
informed,  does  in  fact  arise  from  the  contact  of 
•woollen  substances  with  hot  flat-irons.  As  we 
advance,  our  ears  are  greeted  by  the  resounding 
clash  of  scissors.  Entering  upon  the  field  of  ac 
tion,  our  eyes  are  dazzled  by  a  thousand  frag 
ments  of  rich  and  brilliant  hues,  and  our  personal 
safety  endangered  by  swiftly  flying  needles  and 
unsuspected  pins.  Gossip  is  at  an  end,  for  the 
thread  must  be  continually  bitten  off.  Dancing 
is  child's  play,  a  folly  of  the  past.  The  piano  is 
converted  into  a  table,  or  an  ironing-board.  No 
games  can  be  suggested  but  Thread-my-needle, 
and  Thimble-rig.  No  books  are  at  hand  but 
Harper,  with  the  fashion-plate  at  the  end ;  the 
newspapers  of  the  day  are  cut  into  uncouth 
shapes;  and  conversation  (when  conducted  in 
English)  hangs  the  unsuccessful  Bloomer  reform 
upon  the  gibbet  of  ridicule. 

Now,  if  we  would  prevent  utter  disunion  in 
society,  something  like  a  compromise  must  be 
effected,  and  to  the  ladies  belongs  the  laboring 
oar.  I  use  a  metaphor  which  implies  that  they 
must  do  something  they  are  little  accustomed 
to  do  ;  they  must  make  some  concession.  We 


126  A    GROWL. 

have  done  all  we  could  do,  and  I  will  make  one 
statement  which  will  convince  the  world  that  we 
bachelors  are  not  obstinate  without  good  reason. 
I  confess  (though  it  is  not  without  some  slight 
degree  of  shame  that  I  own  it),  that  I  have, 
during  the  last  week,  consumed  the  greater  part 
of  every  day  in  ineffectual  study,  trying  to  per 
fect  myself  in  the  terminology  of  the  science  of 
Fashion.  I  have  listened  attentively,  and  have 
gathered  into  a  retentive  memory  sundry  techni 
calities;  but  in  vain  have  I  submitted  these 
terms  of  a  strange  dialect  to  the  strictest  ety 
mological  research.  In  vain  have  I  conversed 
upon  this  subject  with  the  most  intelligent  dry- 
goods  dealers.  In  learning  the  few  idiomatic 
phrases  they  employ,  I  have  experienced  only 
the  satisfaction  which  young  students  in  Greek 
literature  feel,  when  they  have,  with  infinite 
labor,  mastered  the  alphabet  of  that  rich  and  co 
pious  language. 

Bat  there  is  hope.  Experience  tells  us,  this 
state  of  things  cannot  last  for  ever.  A  few 
weeks,  and  our  sufferings  shall  be  rewarded,  our 
forbearance  repaid.  Then  shall  gay  streamers, 
pendent  from  rejuvenated  bonnets,  float,  as  of 
yore,  across  our  promenades,  and  on  the  shoul- 


A   GROWL.  127 

ders  of  Earth's  fairest  daughters  the  variegated 
mantle  be  again  displayed.  The  streets,  now 
deserted  by  the  fair,  will  ere  long  glitter  with 
the  brilliant  throng,  and  our  sidewalks  be  swept 
once  more  by  the  gracefully  flowing  silk.  Taper 
fingers  shall  condescendingly  be  extended  to  us, 
the  smile  of  beauty  beam  on  us,  and  witty  speech 
banish  our  resentful  remembrance  of  incompre 
hensible  jargon. 


TO    JENNY    LIND, 

ON  HEARING  HER  SING  THE  ARIA  "ON  MIGHTY  PENS,"  FROM 
"  THE  CREATION." 


WHEN  Haydn  first  conceived  that  air  divine, 
The  voice  that  thrilled  his  inward  ear  was  thine. 
The  Lark,  that  even  now  to  heaven's  gate  springs, 
And  near  the  sky  her  earth-born  carol  sings, 
Poured  on  his  ear  a  higher,  purer  note, 
And  heavenly  rapture  seemed  to  swell  her  throat. 
To  him,  from  groves  of  Paradise,  the  Dove 
Breathed  Eden's  innocence  and  Eden's  love ; 
And  seraph-taught  seemed  the  enchanting  lay 
The  Nightingale  poured  forth  at  close  of  day  ; 
For  yet  nor  sin  nor  sorrow  had  its  birth, 
To  touch,  as  now,  the  sweetest  sounds  of  earth. 
Yes!  as  upon  his  inner  sense  was  borne 
The  melody  of  that  primeval  morn, 
And  all  his  soul  was  music,  —  O,  to  him 
The  voice  of  Nature  was  an  angel's  hymn  ! 


TO    JENNY    LIND.  129 

But  was  there,  then,  one  human  voice  that  brought 
Unto  his  outward  ear  his  own  rapt  thought, 
In  tones,  interpreting  in  worthy  guise 
The  varied  notes  of  Eden's  melodies  ?  — 
O,  happier  we  !  for  unto  us  't  is  given 
To  hear,  through  thee,   the  strains  he  caught   from 
heaven. 

December  1,  1851. 


MY    HERBARIUM. 


POOR,  dry,  musty  flowers!  Who  would  be 
lieve  you  ever  danced  in  the  wind,  drank  in  the 
evening  dews,  and  spread  sweet  fragrance  on 
the  air  ?  A  touch  now  breaks  your  brittle  leaves. 
Your  odors  are  like  attic  herbs,  or  green  tea,  or 
mouldy  books.  Your  forms  are  bent  and  flat 
tened  into  every  ugly  and  distorted  shape.  Your 
lovely  colors  are  faded,  —  white  changed  to 
black,  yellow  to  dirty  white,  gorgeous  scarlet  to 
brick  color,  purple  to  muddy  brown.  Poor 
things!  Who  drew  you  from  your  native 
woods  and  brooks,  to  press  you  flat,  and  dry 
your  moisture  up,  and  paste  you  down  helpless 
ly  upon  your  backs,  such  mocking  shadows  of 
your  former  grace  and  beauty  ? 

Ah!  sorrowfully  do  I  confess  it!  It  was  I. 
In  my  early  years  I  searched  the  woods  and 


MY    HERBARIUM.  131 

meadows,  scaled  rocks,  forded  bogs,  and  scru 
tinized  each  shady  thicket,  with  murderous  in 
tent.  I  bore  my  drooping  victims  home,  and 
sacrificed  them  relentlessly  to  science.  With 
my  own  hand  I  turned  the  screw  that  crushed 
out  all  that  was  lovely  and  graceful  and  deli 
cate  about  them.  How  I  wearied  myself  over 
that  flower-press!  How  anxiously  I  watched 
over  the  stiff  stalks  and  shrivelled  leaves,  —  all 
that  was  left!  How  perseveringly  I  changed 
and  dried  the  papers,  jammed  my  fingers  be 
tween  the  heavy  boards,  and  blistered  my  hands 
with  that  obstinate  screw !  And  how  cordially 
I  hated  it  all !  I  liked  the  fun  of  gathering  the 
flowers,  the  triumph  of  finding  new  specimens, 
and  the  excitement  of  hazardous  scrambles ;  but 
as  for  the  rest  it  was  drudgery,  which  I  went 
through  only  from  a  stern  sense  of  duty.  Now, 
thanks  to  the  busy  little  fingers  that  passed  over 
these  leaves,  I  have  a  fund  of  amusement  laid 
up  for  me;  for  every  page  has  its  story,  and 
each  mutilated  flower  is  the  centre  of  a  beautiful 
picture.  Here  the  ludicrous  and  the  pathetic 
are  so  exquisitely  blended,  that  I  laugh  with  a 
regretful  feeling  at  my  heart,  and  sigh  even  when 
smiles  are  on  my  face.  The  first  few  pages  are 


132  MY    HERBARIUM. 

light  and  joyous,  full  of  a  child's  warm  impulses 
and  ready  zeal,  and  enlivened  here  and  there  by 
some  roguish  caprice.  That  was  the  time  when, 
in  my  simplicity,  I  loved  dandelions  and  butter 
cups,  and  could  see  beauty  even  in  the  common 
white-weed  of  the  fields.  Ah!  here  they  are, 
arranged  in  whimsical  positions,  —  Clover  and 
Sorrel,  Violets  and  Blue-eyed  Grass,  Pepper- 
grass  and  Dock  (O,  how  hard  that  was  to 
press!),  Mouse-Ear  and  Yarrow,  Shepherd's- 
Purse,  Buttercups,  and  full-blown  Dandelion, 
Succory,  and  Chickweed,  and  Gill-run-over-the- 
ground,  —  with  their  homeliest  names  written 
in  sprawling  characters,  all  down  hill,  beneath 
them.  I  did  not  aspire  to  botanical  names  in 
those  days.  I  thought  nothing  was  unfit  for  my 
new  Herbarium.  Such  was  my  zeal,  that  I  be 
lieve  I  should  have  filled  it  entirely  in  a  few 
days,  if  I  had  not  been  counselled  to  make  a 
judicious  selection.  I  had  a  faculty  for  bringing 
home  plants  impossible  to  press,  and  insisting 
upon  making  the  experiment.  I  slept  for  a 
week  with  my  bed-post  tilted  up  on  a  huge  book, 
wherein  reposed  a  water-lily,  obstinately  refusing 
to  lie  flat.  All  kinds  of  woody  plants,  too,  were 
my  delight,  though  they  invariably  came  out  of 


MY    HERBARIUM.  133 

the  press  as  they  went  in,  except  that  the  leaves 
were  in  every  variety  of  unnatural  position.  I 
never  grew  weary,  either,  of  gathering  stately 
and  graceful  green  ferns,  and  finding  them  all 
"  cockled  up,"  as  the  phrase  went,  when  I  got 
home.  I  believe  I  made  some  experiments  on  a 
horsechestnut  blossom  once ;  but  as  it  is  not  to 
be  found  in  my  Herbarium,  I  am  inclined  to 
think  they  were  unsuccessful.  How  happy 
children  are  with  any  new  possession !  I 
thought  there  never  was  any  thing  quite  equal 
to  my  new  book.  All  the  girls  had  them,  with 
neat  marbled  covers,  and  white  paper  within,  and 
each  one  was  determined  to  make  hers  the  best 
of  the  whole.  When  pasting  day  came,  there 
was  an  intense  excitement.  We  all  daubed  our 
little  fingers  to  our  heart's  content,  and  our  faces, 
too,  as  to  that.  I  remember  perfectly  the  sensa 
tion  of  smiling,  after  the  paste  stiffened.  We 
spattered  our  desks,  and  pasted  the  wrong  side 
of  the  flowers,  and  stuck  the  leaves  together,  and 
got  every  thing  a  little  one-sided,  and,  in  short, 
became  so  worried  and  heated  and  vexed,  that 
we  did  not  hunt  for  any  more  flowers  for  a  long 
time  after  the  first  pasting  day. 

In  the  mean  while  my  ideas  had  undergone  a 


134  MY    HERBARIUM. 

change.  I  had  become  much  more  ambitious. 
A  new  page  brings  flowers  of  a  higher  order, 
and,  beneath  them,  besides  the  common  name, 
appears  a  sounding  botanical  title ;  ay,  still  more, 
the  class  and  order  are  written  in  full.  Poor 
things !  How  many  of  your  species  must  have 
been  pulled  to  pieces  by  inexperienced  hands,  to 
ascertain  the  exact  number  of  stamens,  and  their 
relative  positions !  I  feel,  now,  a  tenderness  for 
the  shrinking,  delicate  wild  flowers,  that  makes 
me  hesitate  even  to  pick  them  from  their  shady 
retreats ;  but  then,  such  was  my  ardor  for  inves 
tigation,  the  more  I  loved  them,  and  the  more 
beautiful  they  seemed,  the  more  eagerly  I  tore 
them  to  fragments.  Let  the  ingenious  student 
analyze  bits  of  brass  wire,  and  reduce  to  its  sim- 
,ple  elements  as  much  gunpowder  as  he  pleases, 
but  I  raise  my  voice  against  this  wanton  destruc 
tion  of  rare  and  beautiful  flowers.  No  chemical 
process  can  ever  restore  them. 

As  I  glance  over  this  new  page,  I  see  a  merry 
troop  of  little  girls,  crowding  around  their  kind 
teacher,  trying  to  restrain  their  superabundant 
spirits,  and  restless  activity,  till  they  may  give 
them  free  scope  in  the  woods.  Passing  up  the 
street,  they  are  joined  by  fresh  recruits,  who  come 


MY    HERBARIUM.  135 

dancing  out  of  the  houses,  with  baskets,  and 
trowels,  and  tin  boxes,  and  delightfully  mysteri 
ous  suppers  packed  away  nicely,  to  be  eaten  in 
the  most  romantic  place  that  can  be  found,  — 
provided  there  is  no  danger  of  snakes,  or  ivy. 
Where  they  are  going  I  should  find  it  impossi 
ble  to  say,  until  I  have  consulted  the  new  leaf 
just  turned  over.  Here,  side  by  side,  are  the 
wild  Columbine  and  the  cheerful  little  Bethle 
hem  Star.  They  grew,  I  remember,  upon  Pow 
der-House  Hill,  so  named  from  the  massive 
granite  building  upon  its  summit,  which  we 
never  dared  to  go  near,  for  fear  of  an  explosion. 
The  hill  was  rough,  rocky,  barren,  and  in  some 
places  quite  steep.  In  the  clefts  of  the  rocks, 
generally  far  above  our  reach,  the  bright  red 
columbines  stood  in  groups,  drooping  their 
graceful  heads.  Some  of  the  rocks  were  worn 
to  a  perfect  polish  by  the  feet  of  daring  sliders. 
It  was  a  dangerous  pastime  even  to  the  most 
experienced.  A  loss  of  balance,  a  slight  devia 
tion  from  the  beaten  track,  a  trip  in  a  hollow,  or 
a  momentary  entanglement  in  your  dress,  —  and 
you  are  lost!  I  declined  joining  in  the  diversion 
ever  after  the  first  attempt,  which  was  nothing 
but  a  headlong  plunge  from  top  to  bottom.  But 


136  MY    HERBARIUM. 

though  I  heroically  stood  aloof  while  the  girls 
were  enjoying  the  sport,  and  making  the  air  ring 
with  their  laughter,  I  was  sure,  afterwards,  to 
come  upon  the  slippery  places  unintentionally, 
and  take  a  slide  whether  I  would  or  not.  I  had, 
I  remember,  a  most  unfortunate  propensity  for 
climbing  and  scrambling,  choosing  the  worst 
paths,  and  daring  the  others  to  follow  my  lead 
on  precarious  footholds.  It  was  unfortunate, 
because  I  seldom  came  forth  from  these  trials 
unscathed.  I  was  always  tearing  my  dresses  in 
clambering  over  fences,  or  bumping  my  head  in 
creeping  under.  Where  others  cleared  brooks 
with  a  light  spring,  I  landed  in  the  middle.  I 
was  sure  to  pick  out  spongy,  oozy,  slippery  grass 
to  stand  upon,  in  marshy  land,  or  was  yet  more 
likely  to  slump  through  over  shoes  in  black  mud. 
Banks  always  caved  in  beneath  my  feet,  unex 
pectedly.  Brambles  seemed  to  enter  into  a  con 
spiracy  to  lay  violent  hands  on  me,  and  hidden 
boughs  lay  in  wait  to  trip  me  up.  Moss  and 
bark  scaled  off  the  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  bearing 
me  with  it  when  I  was  least  on  my  guard,  or 
the  trunks  themselves,  solid  enough  to  all  ap 
pearance,  crushed  to  powder  beneath  my  un 
wary  tread.  Even  the  stone  walls  deserted  me. 


MY    HERBARIUM.  137 

I  made  use  of  one  as  a  bridge,  one  day,  to  reach 
a  golden  cowslip  that  grew  temptingly  in  a 
swamp ;  but  a  treacherous  stone  rolled  off  with 
me,  and  a  perfect  avalanche  of  huge  rocks  fol 
lowed,  splashing  the  muddy  water  all  over  me 
as  I  sat,  helplessly,  buoyed  up  by  the  tall  grass. 
I  regret  to  say,  I  forgot  the  cowslip. 


THE    OSTRICH. 


OF  the  wild  and  wayward  Ostrich,  say,  have  ye  never 

heard  ? 
Of  the  poor,  distracted,  lonely,  outcast,  and  wandering 

bird  ? 

Which  is  not  a  bird  of  heaven,  nor  yet  a  beast  of  earth, 
But  ever  roveth,   homeless, — a  creature   of   strange 

birth. 
Wings  hath  it,  but  it  flies  not.      And  yet  within  its 

breast 
Are  strange  and  sleepless  drivings,  so  that  it  may  not 

rest ; 

Half-formed,   half-conscious   impulses,   with   its   half- 
formed  pinions  given, 
Too  strong  for  rest  on   earth,  too  weak  to  bear  to 

heaven  ;  — 
And  madly  it  beats  its  wings,  but  vainly,  against  its 

side, 


THE    OSTRICH.  139 

For  the   light  wind    rusheth  through  them,  mocking 

them  in  its  pride. 
Then,  distraught,  it  hurries  onward,  the  gates  of  heaven 

shut, 
Flying  from  what  it  knows  not,  —  seeking  it  knows  not 

what. 

While  in  the  parching  desert,  amid  the  stones  and  sand, 
Its  stone-like  eggs  are  lying,  here  and  there,  on  every 

hand, 

It  wanders  on,  unheeding  ;  and,  with  funereal  gloom, 
Trembles   in    every  breeze    each    torn,    dishevelled 

plume. 

And  when,  with  startled  terror,  it  sees  its  foes  around, 
It  strives  to  rise  above  them,  but  clingeth  to  the  ground. 
Then  on  it  madly  rusheth,  with  idly  fluttering  wings  ; 
The  stones  in  showers  behind  it  convulsively  it  flings ; 
Onward,  and  ever  onward,  —  the  fleetest  horses  tire,  — 
But  its  strength  grows  less  and  less,  their  tramping  ever 

nigher. 

The  poor  distracted  thing !  it  feels  its  lonely  birth  ; 
It  may  not  rise  to  heaven,  so  it  cometh  to  the  earth  ; 
To  the   earth,  as  to  a  mother,  since  to  the  earth  it 

must,  — 
Its  head  in  her  bosom  nestled,  its  eye  veiled  with  her 

dust. 
But  she  will  not  receive  it.     From  earth  and  heaven 

outcast, 
The  Ostrich  dies,  as  it  lived,  unfriended  to  the  last. 


140  THE    OSTRICH. 

Of  the  wild  and  wayward  Ostrich,  say,  have  ye 

never  heard  ? 

Of  the  poor,  distracted,  lonely,  outcast,  and  wandering 
bird  ? 

But  not  alone  it  wandereth.  My  spirit  stirs  in  me, 
With  a  sort  of  half-fraternal  and  drawing  sympathy ; 
This  lonely,  restless  spirit,  that  would  rise  from  the 

heavy  ground 

To  the  sky  of  light  and  love  that  stretcheth  all  around. 
But,  with  all  its   restless  longings,  it  too  must  earth- 
bound  stay, 
And,  with  wings  half  formed  for  soaring,  here  hold  its 

weary  way, 
Hungering  for  food  of  heaven,  feeding  on  dust  and 

stone, 

While  about  it  lie  unheeded,  as  it  hasteth  on  alone, 
Its  deeds  of  good  or  evil,  a  fruitful  mystery  ; 
But  it  presseth  on,  nor  recketh  what  their  event  may 

be. 
And  when  doubt  and  fear  assail  it,  it  may  not  rise 

above 
To  the   glorious,   peaceful  height  of  fear-outcasting 

love  ; 
But  something  draws  it  downward,  breathes  of  its  lower 

birth, 
Prompts  it  to  seek  a  refuge  in  the  blindness  of  the 

earth. 


THE    OSTRICH.  141 

And  it  hides  its  head  in  earthliness  ;  at  least  it  will  not 

see 
The  blow  it  cannot  ward  off,  and  the  foe  it  may  not 

flee. 
But  something  softly  whispers  that  these  wings  shall 

grow  to  soar  — 
Heaven  grant !  —  in  the  cloudless  depths  of  love  for 

evermore. 

It  whispers  that  again  these  blinded  eyes  shall  see ; 
Heaven  grant  in  their  yearning  gaze  the  long-sought 

home  may  be ! 

It  whispers  each  word  and  act  shall  to  fruition  spring ; 
Heaven  grant  they  may  joy  to  man,  and  peace  to  the 

spirit  bring ! 

Of  the  wild  and  wandering  Ostrich,  say,  have  ye 

never  heard  ? 

The  type  of  the  restless  soul  of  man,  the  weary,  wing 
less  bird. 


cows. 


I  ADMIRE  cows  in  their  proper  places.  They 
are  undoubtedly  useful  animals;  some  may 
think  them  handsome  and  graceful:  this  is,  as 
yet,  an  unsettled  question.  They  certainly  fig 
ure  pretty  extensively  in  all  sketches  of  rural 
scenery,  and  may,  therefore,  be  considered  as 
picturesque  objects ;  but  I  think  that  on  canvas 
they  take  to  themselves  beauties  which  they  do 
not  possess  in  actual  life.  I  do  not  object  to  see 
them  at  a  distance,  quietly  grazing  in  a  meadow 
by  the  brink  of  a  winding  stream,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing,  provided  the  distance  is  very  great, 
and  a  strong  fence  intervenes.  For  I  would 
have  you  know,  that  I  am  a  delicate  young  lady 
of  nervous  temperament  and  keen  sensibilities, 
and  have  a  mortal  dread  of  cows.  I  am  not 
used  to  the  customs  of  country  life,  which  place 


cows.  143 

this  animal  on  a  level  with  domestic  pets,  and 
when  my  brother  asked  me  to  pat  the  side  of 
one  of  these  great,  coarse  brutes,  I  screamed  at 
the  mere  idea.  For  I  should  be  extremely  un 
willing  to  provoke  one  of  them,  because  I  have 
been  told  that,  when  heated  with  passion,  as 
these  beasts  often  are,  it  sometimes  happens 
that  the  powder-horns  on  top  of  their  heads  ex 
plode,  and  spread  ruin  and  desolation  around. 
People  here  bestow  a  vast  deal  too  much  con 
sideration  on  these  unpleasant  animals,  for  they 
are  often  seen  —  that  is,  those  of  them  that  are 
troubled  with  weak  eyes  —  walking  along  the 
streets  with  boards  over  their  faces,  as  a  protec 
tion  from  the  rays  of  the  sun.  I  don't  believe 
that  is  the  real  reason  of  the  thing,  though  my 
brother  assures  me  that  it  is.  I  think,  myself, 
that  it  is  intended  as  a  keen  satire  upon  those 
young  ladies  who  wear  veils  in  the  streets ;  but 
I  never  will  yield  my  point.  I  will  wear  my 
veil,  so  long  as  I  have  a  complexion  worth  pro 
tecting,  and  so  long  as  there  are  gentlemen 
worth  cutting.  The  Brighton  Bridge  Battery  is 
a  delightful  promenade  on  a  warm  summer's 
day,  it  is  so  shady ;  but  it  is  closed,  I  may  say, 
every  Wednesday  and  Thursday,  to  accommo- 


144  cows. 

date  these  detestable  pets  of  the  public.  It 
seems,  as  my  brother  informs  me,  that  the  drov 
ers,  from  humane  considerations,  are  in  the  habit 
of  driving  their  cattle  over  to  Brighton,  (when  the 
weather  is  pleasant,)  and  back  again  on  the  next 
day,  in  order  that  their  health  may  be  improved 
by  the  sea-air  which  blows  up  Charles  River. 
Now  I  think  that  when  the  cow  takes  prece 
dence  of  the  lady,  and  usurps,  to  the  utter  exclu 
sion  of  the  latter,  the  most  delightful  promenade 
in  Cambridge,  it  is  time  the  city  authorities 
should  look  to  it;  and  so  I  told  my  brother. 
He  considered  for  a  moment,  and  then  advised 
me  not  to  bear  it  any  longer,  but  to  go  upon 
Brighton  Bridge,  in  spite  of  the  cows,  and  assert 
my  independence.  I  followed  his  advice,  as  I 
always  do,  and,  on  one  fine  afternoon,  took  ad 
vantage  of  the  pleasant  weather  to  indulge  in  a 
solitary  walk  in  that  direction.  As  I  was  saun 
tering  along  on  the  wooden  sidewalk,  gazing  at 
the  noble  ships  which  lay  moored  by  their  gaff- 
topsails  to  the  abutments  of  the  bridge,  and 
viewing  the  honest  sailors  as  they  promenaded 
up  and  down  the  string-ladders  at  the  command 
of  their  captains,  my  fears  were  aroused  by  a 
distant  commotion.  I  hastily  turned  and  looked 


cows.  .      145 

over  the  railing  into  the  street.  A  whole  drove 
of  infuriated  cows,  urged  on  by  two  fiendish 
boys  and  a  savage  dog,  was  rapidly  approaching 
me  from  the  Cambridge  side.  What  should  I 
do  ?  I  was  too  much  fatigued  to  run,  and  I  had 
never  learned  to  swim.  My  plans  were  hastily 
formed.  Flinging  my  red  silk  visite  and  sky- 
blue  parasolette  into  the  water,  lest  the  gay  col 
ors  should  still  more  enrage  the  wild  animals,  I 
jumped  over  the  outside  railing  towards  the 
river,  and  hung  by  one  arm  over  the  angry  flood 
during  a  moment  of  speechless  agony  !  On 
they  came,  with  lightning  speed,  in  a  whirlwind 
of  dust.  A  rapid  succession  of  earthquakes  — 
bellowings  — groans,  —  and  all  was  over.  I  was 
safe.  On  inspection  of  the  footmarks,  I  felt  quite 
sure  that  some  of  them  must  have  approached 
within  ten  yards  of  me,  and  only  two  railings 
had  intervened  between  me  and  their  fury. 

An  honest  tar  from  one  of  the  men-of-war 
employed  in  unloading  coal  at  Willard's  Wharf 
took  the  captain's  gig,  and  made  for  my  parasol 
and  visite  as  they  floated  away,  and  returned 
them  with  the  very  unintelligible  remark,  that 
I  'd  "  better  not  clear  the  wreck  next  time  unless 
it  blew  more  of  a  breeze." 
10 


THE    HOME-BEACON. 


BY  Elkton  wood,  where  gurgling  flood 

Impels  the  foamy  mill, 
Where  quarries  loom,  in  solemn  gloom, 

A  mansion  crowns  the  hill. 

A  pharos  true,  light  ever  new 

Streams  through  its  friendly  pane, 

To  guide  and  greet  benighted  feet 
Which  thread  the  winding  lane. 

Lofty  and  lone,  that  light  has  shone, 

Alike  o'er  green  or  snow, 
Since  first  a  pair  their  nest  built  there, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Now,  as  we  walk,  with  pleasant  talk 

To  cheer  the  dismal  way, 
That  light  shall  tell  of  marriage -bell, 

Of  moon  and  merry  sleigh. 


THE    HOME-BEACON.  147 

The  ancient  home  to  which  we  come 
These  scenes  revealed  one  night ; 

As  the  beacon  true,  so  old,  yet  new, 
Flung  wide  its  cheery  light. 

Go  back  threescore  long  years,  or  more  : 

Old  Time  the  latch  shall  lift, 
And,  from  his  urn,  once  more  return 

The  home  of  love  and  thrift. 

A  noble  sire,  with  nerves  of  wire, 

Warm  heart,  and  open  hand,  — 
A  worthy  dame,  nor  shrewd,  nor  tame,  — 

Lead  forth  the  phantom  band  ; 

Three  girls,  three  boys,  with  fun  and  noise, 

Next  gather  round  the  hearth ; 
Reenter,  then,  dear  friends,  again 

All  full  of  life  and  mirth. 

"  My  pretty  nuns,  't  is  late  !     My  sons, 

Bring  out  the  *  Sliding  Car.' 
For  one  fair  bride,  you  all  must  ride 

The  snows  both  fast  and  far." 

First  darts  away  the  bridegroom  gay, 
Nor  waits  the  well-aimed  jest : 


148  THE    HOME-BEACON. 

To  shed  and  stall  they  follow,  all, 
To  speed  their  sire's  behest. 

In  full  array,  the  spacious  sleigh 
Glides  through  the  pillared  gate  : 

Each  prancing  steed,  straining  to  lead, 
Draws  no  unwilling  mate. 

Full  moon  and  bright  loops  up  the  night 

Above  the  starry  sky. 
Runner  and  heel,  well  shod  with  steel, 

Cut  sharply  as  they  fly. 

Along  they  go,  o'er  sparkling  snow, 
Shrill  bells  to  song  oft  ringing  ; 

By  oak  and  birch,  to  Gladstone  church 
A  bridal  party  bringing. 

On  time-worn  walls  the  moonbeam  falls, 

And  silvers  o'er  the  spire, 
While  diamond-pane  and  giddy  vane 

Repeat  the  heavenly  fire. 

From  lofty  tower  to  maiden's  bower, 
And  wide  o'er  hill  and  dell, 

Of  earthly  heaven,  to  mortals  given, 
Sweet  chimes  the  marriage-bell. 


THE    HOME-BEACON.  149 

With  open  book,  and  solemn  look, 

All  robed  in  priestly  lawn, 
The  Rector  stands,  —  but  counts  the  sands, 

Right  willing  to  be  gone  ! 

(The  evening  mail  and  nut-brown  ale, 

His  pipe  and  rocking-chair, 
Are  waiting  long,  while  the  bridal  throng 

Still  lingers  unaware.) 

An  ancient  gloom  fills  all  the  room, 

And  dims  the  lamps  above, 
Though  wall  and  aisle  in  verdure  smile, 

Through  wreath  and  Christmas  grove. 

By  branching  pines  and  graceful  vines, 

Slow  glides  the  youthful  pair 
To  the  altar  green,  with  brow  serene, 

And  kneel  together  there. 

Soft  breathes  the  vow,  responsive  now, 

In  calm  but  earnest  tone. 
The  wedding-ring,  strange,  mystic  thing ! 

Fast  binds  the  twain  in  one. 

The  solemn  word  no  longer  heard, 
With  chastened  steps  and  slow, 


150  THE    HOME-BEACON. 

And  heart  in  heart,  no  more  to  part, 
To  "Home,  sweet  Home,"  they  go. 

Fresh  now,  again,  o'er  snowy  main, 

The  winged  steeds  return  : 
On  roughening  rock,  with  shriek  and  shock, 

The  flashing  runners  burn. 

O'er  cradling  drift,  secure  though  swift,  — 
Now  smooth,  now  rough,  the  track,  — 

The  furious  sleigh  devours  the  way, 
As  lash  and  harness  crack. 

Through  furs  and  wool,  the  air,  so  cool, 

Is  felt  or  feared  no  more'; 
Though  gay  the  steeds  with  icy  beads, 

And  their  flanks  are  frosted  o'er. 

A  fitful  light,  scarce  yet  in  sight, 
Gleams  through  the  opening  wood : 

Ah  !  now  they  come  to  their  hill-side  home, 
In  merry,  merry  mood. 

Four  lovely  girls,  a  string  of  pearls, 

Are  found  in  place  of  three : 
Four  daughters  fair  are  gathered  there 

Around  the  Christmas-tree. 


THE    HOME-BEACON.  151 

As  roars  the  fire,  their  loving  sire 

A  warmer  welcome  deals  ; 
And,  stooping  low,  on  one  fair  brow 

His  heart's  adoption  seals. 

A  dearer  bliss,  a  mother's  kiss, 

Awaits  the  blushing  bride  : 
One  look  above  !  then  smiles  of  love 

Express  her  joy  and  pride. 

Once  more  good  cheer  removes  the  tear, 

Returns  the  joyous  smile  ; 
Soon  laughter,  poured  around  the  board, 

Rings  through  the  spacious  pile. 

While  dance  and  song  employ  them  long, 

Steals  in  the  cold,  gray  dawn ! 
Back  to  your  urn,  ye  phantoms,  turn, 

And  vanish  o'er  the  lawn. 

Stern,  though  in  tears,  with  Fatal  shears, 

Time  scattered  all  those  pearls  ! 
They  fell,  unstrung,  old  graves  among ; 

O'er  all  the  snow-wreath  curls  ! 

Yet  shines  that  light  from  lattice  bright, 
Wide  o'er  the  grass,  or  snow  ; 


152  THE    HOME-BEACON. 

Still  all  the  room  its  rays  illume, 
As  when,  so  long  ago, 

Its  arrowy  star  recalled  the  car 
Then  winding  round  the  wood, 

And  lime-rock  gray  threw  back  the  ray 
Across  the  rapid  flood. 

Though  cold  each  form,  their  love,  still  warm, 
From  hearth  and  lattice  glows  : 

Hearts  kind  and  dear  yet  linger  here, 
And  bid  us  to  repose. 

The  skies  are  dark  !     No  moonbeams  mark 

Or  wall,  or  traveller's  way  : 
O'er  rock  and  wood  thick  storm-clouds  brood, 

And  doubts  our  steps  delay. 

No  beacon-light  yet  cheers  the  night : 

How  gloomy  grows  the  hour ! 
Ah !  there  it  shines,  in  lance-like  lines, 

Sharp  through  the  misty  shower. 

Shine  on,  fair  star,  through  storms,  afar ! 

Still  bless  the  nightly  way ! 
Always  the  same,  a  vestal  flame, 

Love  shall  maintain  thy  ray. 


THE    FOURTH    OF    JULY 


IT  was  the  anniversary  of  our  Glorious 
Fourth.  The  evil  genius  who  specially  pre 
sides  over  the  destinies  of  unoffending  college 
boys  put  it  into  the  heads  of  five  of  us  to  cele 
brate  the  day  by  an  excursion  by  water  to  Na- 
hant  Beach.  The  morning  was  delightful, — 
the  cool  summer  air  just  freshening  into  a  steady 
and  favoring  breeze,  the  sun  tempered  in  his 
ferocity  by  an  occasional  cloud  above  us,  the  sea 
calm  and  pleasant  —  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know — just  what  you  want  on  such  occa 
sions,  —  and  we  set  sail  from  Braman's,  resolved 
to  have  "  a  jolly  good  time."  I  can't  describe 
our  passage  down.  It  was  altogether  too  full 
of  fun  to  be  written  on  one  sheet.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  we  laughed,  and  sang,  and  joked,  and  ate, 
and  drank  ('t  was  when  we  were  young),  and  so 


154  THE    FOURTH    OF    JULY. 

on,  all  the  way,  and  in  fact  I  felt  rather  disap 
pointed  at  arriving  so  soon  as  we  did  at  our 
destined  port.  Here  new  pleasures  awaited  us, 
in  the  shape  of  acquaintances  unexpected  and 
unexpecting,  rides  on  the  beach,  bowling,  and 
loafing  in  general,  —  much  too  rich  to  be  described 
here  and  now.  But  there  is  an  end  to  all  sport, 
and  ours  came  quite  too  soon.  The  shadows 
had  begun  to  lengthen  considerably  before  we 
thought  of  starting  on  our  return,  and  certain 
ominous  indications  in  the  heavens  above  us 
warned  us,  that,  as  our  passage  homewards  was 
not  by  land,  further  delay  was  unadvisable. 

Dolefully  we  set  our  sail,  and  made  for  Boston 
Harbor.  We  began  to  feel  the  reaction  which 
always  follows  a  season  of  extreme  joviality,  and 
our  spirits  were  down.  Our  chief  wit,  Tom 

B ,  who  had  before  kept  us  in  a  perpetual 

roar  all  the  way,  sat  moody  and  desponding, 
and  answered  gruffly  every  question  put  to 
him;  speaking  only  when  spoken  to,  and  then 
in  monosyllables  rarely  used  in  polite  circles. 
Our  other  joker,  second  only  to  Tom,  the  above 
named,  having  amused  us  during  the  whole  day 
by  long  yarns  spun  out  from  a  varied  experience 
and  a  rich  imagination,  betook  himself  to  slum- 


THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY.  155 

ber,  and  tried  to  dream  that  he  was  safe  home 
again.  The  rest  of  us  performed  our  duties 
about  the  boat  in  gloomy  silence,  looking  occa 
sionally  with  some  anxiety  at  the  clouds  gather 
ing  slowly  over  our  heads,  but  keeping  our 
opinions  within  our  own  breasts.  I  had  no  ap 
prehension  of  danger,  for  nothing  indicated  a 
gale ;  in  fact,  the  breeze  was  gradually  deserting 
us.  All  that  was  to  be  feared  was  a  calm, 
steady  rain,  which,  visiting  us  at  a  distance  of 
several  miles  from  home,  and  late  at  night, 
promised  any  thing  but  an  agreeable  conclusion 
to  our  day's  excursion.  At  last  it  came.  First, 
a  heavy  drop,  then  a  few  more,  and  then  a  regu 
lar,  straight,  old-fashioned  pour. 

Our  sail  hung  motionless,  and  we  seemed  to  * 
stand  still  and  take  it.     Our  companions  were 
soon  roused  from  their  abstraction  by  the  very 
unpleasant  circumstances,  and  we  hastily  took 
counsel  together. 

"  Unship  the  rnast,"  says  Tom,  "  and  over  with 
your  oars." 

We  obeyed  our  captain  sulkily,  and  soon  were 
moving  on  again.  We  pulled  away  for  an  hour 
or  so,  drenched  with  the  rain,  which  seemed  to 
come  down  faster  than  ever,  and  were  about  as 


156  THE    FOURTH    OP   JULY. 

miserable  and  down-cast  a  pack  of  wretches  as 
ever  lived ;  for  there  is  nothing  like  a  good  duck 
ing  (to  use  the  common  expression)  to  take  the 
life  and  spirit  out  of  a  man,  not  to  mention  the 
other  discomforts  that  attended  our  situation. 

Silently  we  rowed,  and  not  a  sound  was  heard 
above  the  plashing  of  the  rain  upon  the  surface 
of  the  sea,  and  the  regular  stroke  of  the  oars. 

"  It 's  very  strange  that  we  don't  reach  old 
Point  Shirley,"  says  Tom,  who  had  been  on  the 
look  out  for  this  landmark  during  the  last  half- 
hour. 

"  Very  strange,"  said  we,  and  pulled  away  as 
before. 

Thus  passed  another  half-hour  in  silent,  cease 
less  occupation,  when,  from  the  mere  force  of 
habit,  I  dipped  my  hand  over  the  boat's  gun 
wale,  with  the  hope  of  cooling  my  blistered  palm 
in  the  salt  water.  Judge  of  my  surprise,  when  I 
found  my  hand  immersed  in  thick  black  mud. 

"  By  Jove,  fellows,"  cried  I,  "  we  're  floored ! " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  fact;  we  were 
aground.  At  that  instant  the  moon  burst  out 
from  between  the  drifting  clouds,  and,  as  if  in 
derision,  threw  a  streak  of  light  over  our  melan 
choly  position.  There  we  were,  high  and  dry 


THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY.  157 

on  a  bank  of  mud,  a  scooped  furrow  on  each 
side  of  us  attesting  the  frantic  efforts  of  our 
oarsmen  to  get  a  headway,  and  a  long  wake, 
ten  feet  in  extent,  marking  our  distance  from  the 
sea  behind  us.  Such  was  our  position  as  the 
moon  revealed  it  to  us.  We  looked  dolefully 
in  one  another's  faces  for  three  minutes ;  then 
a  grim  smile  gradually  stole  over  Tom's  ex 
pressive  countenance,  as  he  slowly  ejaculated, 
"  Point  Shirley  it  is ! "  when  the  ludicrous  side 
of  the  matter  seemed  to  occur  to  each  of  us 
simultaneously,  and  we  indulged  ourselves  with 
a  roar  of  laughter,  —  the  first  since  we  had  left 
Nahant 

Of  course,  nothing  could  be  done  under  the 
circumstances ;  but  we  must  wait  patiently  for 
the  rising  of  the  tide  to  float  us  off.  So  we 
sat  there  in  our  wet  garments  until  the  dead 
of  night,  when  our  boat  gradually  lifted  herself 
off  and  we  started  again,  and  finally  arrived  at 
Braman's  early  in  the  morning. 

The  moral  of  this  tale  may  be  summed  up  in 
a  single  word, —  TEMPERANCE. 


FROM  THE    PAPERS   OF  REGINALD   RAT- 
CLIFFE,  ESQ. 


IN  college  I  was  the  "  Illustrious  Lazy."  In 
my  professional  studies  and  avocations,  I  have 
been  so  hard  driven,  in  order  to  make  up  for 
four  idle  years,  that  I  am  wasted  almost  to 
a  shadow,  and  fears  are  entertained  that  I 
shall  wholly  vanish  into  thin  air.  My  physi 
cian  talks  gravely  about  my  having  exhausted 
my  nervous  energy,  and  sends  me  to  Rat- 
borough,  as  the  place  of  all  others  the  most 
favorable  for  entire  intellectual  repose.  I  am 
living  with  an  old  aunt,  Tabitha  Flint,  who  was 
wont  to  rock  me,  and  trot  me,  and  wash  my 
face,  in  my  helpless  infancy,  and  can  hardly  yet 
be  convinced  that  I  have  outgrown  such  endear 
ing  assiduities  in  the  twenty-five  years  that  have 
intervened.  I  let  her  pet  me,  so  far  as  I  find  it 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  159 

convenient,  and,  indeed,  farther,  because  I  feel 
grateful  for  the  kind  feelings  of  which  I  am  the 
object. 

There  is  another  personage  in  the  household, 
who  probably  thinks  that  in  the  exuberant  kind 
ness  of  my  aunt  I  have  a  full  average  of  civility, 
without  the  least  interest  on  her  part.  Do  not 
for  a  moment  imagine  that  I  am  piqued  at  her 
insulting  indifference  of  manner  towards  a  young 
man  who  (I  beg  you  to  believe)  is  not  wholly 
without  claim  to  a  glance  of  approbation  now 
and  then  from  a  lady's  eye.  You  must  not  sup 
pose  I  care  at  all  about  the  matter.  But  as  I 
have  not  even  a  book  allowed  me  to  take  up 
my  thoughts,  my  curiosity  fixes  itself  strangely 
upon  this  silent,  sulky,  meditative  little  person, 
who  takes  about  as  much  notice,  of  me  as  of  the 
figure  of  Father  Time  over  the  clock. 

What  can  such  a  body  have  to  think  about 
the  livelong  day  that  is  so  absorbing  that  all 
one's  bright  thoughts,  and  one's  most  whimsical 
sallies,  pass  without  notice  ?  Should  I  see  her 
once  move  a  muscle  of  her  very  plain,  doggedly 
inexpressive,  provokingly  composed  phiz,  I  should 
jump  up  and  cry,  "  Bo ! "  with  surprise. 

She  vanishes  several  hours  at  a  time,  and  I 


160 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 


hear  her  humming  to  herself,  sometimes  in  one 
room,  sometimes  in  another.  I  wish  I  knew 
how  she  amuses  herself,  for  I  find  self-amuse 
ment  the  hardest  drudgery  I  ever  tried.  I  could 
stamp,  I  am  so  impatient  of  doing  nothing  but 
lounge  about;  I  am  as  snappish  as  a  chained 
cur,  as  cross  as  a  caged  bear.  And  while  I 
gnaw  my  nails,  and  stretch,  and  yawn,  I  hear 
that  contented,  bee-like  murmur,  and  now  and 
then  a  light,  rapid  step  on  the  stairs,  or  about 
rooms  which  I  do  not  frequent  What  can  she 
find  to  be  so  busy  about,  the  absurd  little  per 
son  ?  how  can  she  be  so  happy  in  this  dull  house 
alone  ? 

There  is  a  piano,  but  as  silent  as  she  is.  I  do 
not  see  her  wince,  though  I  drum  upon  the  keys 
with  most  ingenious  discords,  and  sing  false  on 
purpose  as  loud  as  I  can  bellow.  I  will  not  ask 
her  if  she  can  play ;  she  can  have  no  ear  at  all, 
or  she  would  box  mine  in  self-defence. 

There  is  somebody,  by  name  Flora,  who  is 
looked  for  daily  by  stage-coach.  "  Flory,"  says 
my  aunt,  "  sings  like  a  canary-bird,  and  plays  a 
sight,"  —  and  at  sight  too,  it  seems.  This  Miss 
Flora  will  be  found  to  possess  a  tongue,  I  hope, 
and  the  disposition  to  give  it  exercise.  I  do  not 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  161 

know  certainly  that  Miss  Etty  By  the 

way,  what  IB  her  real  name?  I  won't  conde 
scend  to  ask  any  question  about  her.  But 
really,  I  wish  I  knew  whether  it  is  Mehitable. 
Perhaps  Henrietta.  No,  no,  that  is  too  pretty  a 
name ;  I  shall  call  her  Little  Ugly. 

Hark !  I  have  two  or  three  times  heard*  a 
very  musical  laugh  in  the  direction  of  the 
kitchen.  Heigh-ho !  How  can  any  mortal  laugh 
in  Ratborough  !  Having  nothing  better  to  do,  I 
will  go- and  see  who  this  very  merry  personage 
may  be.  I  will  inquire  into  this  gay  outbreak, 
in  a  land  of  stupidity.  Hark,  again! — how  re 
freshing!  I  must  and  will  know  what  caused 
such  a  gush  of  mirth.  '  Irish  humor,  perhaps,  for 
Norah  is  laughing,  after  her  guttural  fashion, 
too. 

As  I  popped  my  head  into  the  kitchen,  Little 
Ugly  was  just  vanishing  at  the  opposite  door. 
I  could  not  make  Norah  tell  me  what  Miss 
Etty  put  under  her  arm,  as  she  looked  over  her 
shoulder  at  me,  and  darted  out  of  sight.  O  my 
noisy  boots!  I  might  as  well  wear  a  bell  round 
my  neck. 

Stage-wheels  are  rattling  up  the  road.  Now 
they  run  upon  the  grass  before  the  door.  I  rush 
n 


162  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

in  undignified  haste  to  the  window.  Shall  I  — 
will  I — go  and  help  this  long-expected  Miss 
Flora  to  alight  ?  No,  —  for  I  see  forty  boxes  on 
the  coach-top.  A  very  handsome  girl,  really! 
I  will  get  out  a  blameless  dickey,  —  if  such  there 
be.  First  impressions  are  important.  I  wish 
nty  hair  was  cut ! 

I  hear  my  aunt  coming  to  inform  me  of 
Flora's  arrival.  I  shall  be  hugely  surprised ! 
Humph!  —  will  it  be  worth  while  to  trouble  my 
self  about  the  lop-eared  dickey?  Little  Ugly 
will  be  amused,  if  I  do.  She  can  laugh,  it 
seems.  I  had  thought  there  was  no  fan  in  her 
mental  composition.  Yet  I  have  imagined  a 
glimmer  or  so  in  her  eyes,  when  she  thought  I 
was  not  looking  at  them,  and  the  shadow  of  a 
dimple  in  her  cheek  now  and  then. 

Instead  of  Adonizing,  I  will  set  my  long  locks 
on  end,  and  don  my  slipshod  slippers.  "  Yes, 
Aunt;  I  hear,  good  lady!  I  will  presently  ar 
rive,  to  make  my  bow  to  Little  Handsome" 


Journal,  Sept.  23^.  Truly,  the  presence  of 
Miss  Flora  Cooper  makes  Willow  Valley  a 
new  place.  At  least  six  hours  are  taken  from 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS. 


163 


the  length  of  the  days,  though  I  have  given  up 
my  afternoon  slumber,  and  play  chess  and  back 
gammon  instead  of  drumming  on  the  table  or 
piano.  Now  am  I  relieved  from  that  tedious 
companion,  my  own  self.  I  never  liked  him, 
very  well ;  I  had  rather  do  any  thing  than  have 
a  sober  talk  with  a  serious  personage,  who  al 
ways  takes  me  to  do  for  not  making  more  of 
him.  He  scolds  me,  just  as  a  stay-at-home  wife 
lectures  a  gay  husband,  who  never  returns  to  his 
better  half  when  he  finds  any  thing  to  amuse 
him  abroad.  Good-by,  old  fellow;  I  have  found 
better  company  than  your  rememberings  or 
hopings ;  to  wit,  Miss  Flora  Cooper,  alias  Little 
Handsome,  alias  Aunt  Tabby's  Canary. 

The  first  day  or  two  after  her  arrival,  Miss 
Flora  pouted  at  me.  I  was  exceedingly  well 
amused,  making  all  the  saucy  speeches  I  could 
think  of,  in  the  pure  spirit  of  mischief,  and  tak 
ing  no  notice  of  her  tossing  her  pretty  head,  and 
turning  her  back  upon  me.  Finding  that  her 
displeasure  was  not  producing  any  particular 
effect  upon  the  object  of  it,  I  imagine  the  indig 
nant  beauty  begins  to  plot  a  different  revenge 
on  me.  "Ha,  ha!  Miss  Flora!  It  is  not  be 
cause  you  like  me  better  than  you  did,  that 


164  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

you  are  all  smiles,  and  grace,  and  sunshine.  I 
shall  not  flatter  you  the  more,  I  am  deter 
mined.  I  am  on  my  guard.  You  shall  never 
boast  of  me  on  your  list  of  obsequious  ad 
mirers.  No,  no,  Little  Handsome!  I  am  no 
lady's  man,  and  never  was  flirted  withal  in  my 
life.  I  defy  your  smiles,  as  stoutly  as  your 
frowns.  I  like  your  pretty  face ;  yes,  it  is  ex 
ceedingly  beautiful,  as  far  as  form  and  coloring 
go  to  make  up  the  beauty  of  a  face.  And  the 
play  of  the  features,  —  yes,  very  lively  and  pretty, 
only  too  much  of  it.  You  should  not  smile  so 
often ;  and  I  am  tired  of  your  pretty  surprise, 
your  playful  upbraidings,  and  the  raps  of  your 
fan.  I  want  more  repose  of  feature,  Little  Hand 
some.  Now,  what  a  contrast  you  and  sedate 
Miss  Etty  present !  Ah,  very  good !  I  am  glad 
you  have  given  up  following  Little  Ugly  out 
of  the  room  the  moment  we  rise  from  table. 
You  sit  down  to  your  tiny  basket,  and  demurely 
take  out  something  that  passes  for  \vork.  I 
don't  see  you  do  much  at  it,  however.  I  give 
you  warning  that  I  never  hold  skeins  to  be 
wound,  not  I.  I  will  not  read  aloud ;  so  you 
need  not  offer  me  that  '  Sonnet  to  Flora,'  in 
manuscript,  nor  your  pet  poet  in  print.  We 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  165 

will  talk;  it  is  a  comfort  to  have  my  wit  ap 
preciated,  after  wasting  so  much  on  my  aunt, 
who  cannot,  and  Miss  Etty,  who  will  not  un 
derstand.  I  am  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  speak, 
and  to  hear  a  human  voice  in  answer.  I.  like 
especially  to  rattle  on  when  any  nonsense  will 
do.  Chat  is  truly  agreeable  when  one's  brains 
are  not  severely  taxed  to  keep  it  going." 

Sept.  24th.  Charming  little  Canary  !  I  have 
spent  the  forenoon  with  her  at  the  piano.  I 
like  her  playing  when  she  does  not  attempt  my 
favorite  tunes.  It  must  be  confessed  she  is  apt 
to  vary  somewhat,  and  not  for  the  better  al 
ways.  Her  singing,  —  Aunt  Tabitha  well  de 
scribes  it  as  that  of  a  canary ;  sweet  and  liquid, 
and  clear,  and  sustained,  but  all  alike.  Her 
throat  is  a  fine  instrument ;  I  shall  teach  her 
to  use  it  with  more  expression  and  feeling.  We 
will  have  another  lesson  to-morrow. 

I  thought,  though,  there  was  a  shadow  over 
her  face  when  I  called  it  practising.  Etty's  eyes 
met  mine  at  the  moment,  a  rare  occurrence. 
What  was  her  thought  ?  One  cannot  read  in 
her  immovable  face. 

Evening:  I  am  booked  for  a  horseback  ride 
with  Little  Handsome  to-morrow  morning.  How 


166  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

did  she  make  me  offer  ?  I  did  not  mean  to. 
All  country  girls  ride,  I  believe.  I  often  see  Miss 
Etty  cantering  through  the  shady  lanes  all  by 
herself.  I  saw  the  bars  down,  at  the  end  of  the 
track  through  the  wood,  one  day.  I  immedi 
ately  concluded  that  Little  Ugly  had  paced  off 
that  way,  that  I  need  not  see  her  from  my  win 
dow.  I  put  the  bars  up  again,  and  lay  in  wait 
behind  the  bushes.  Soon  I  heard  her  approach 
ing.  I  come  forward  as  she  comes  near,  on  that 
rat-like  pony  of  hers,  who  holds  his  head  down 
as  if  searching  for  something  lost  in  the  road. 
I  stand  in  doubt  whether  to  laugh  at  her  pre 
dicament,  or  advance  in  a  gentlemanly  manner 
to  remove  the  obstacle  I  had  put  in  her  way. 
When  lo!  the  absurd  little  nag  clears  it  at  a 
bound,  and  skims  away  over  the  green  track 
like  a  swallow,  till  he  vanishes  under  the  leafy 
arch.  I  am  left  in  a  very  foolish  attitude,  with 
mouth  and  eyes  wide  open. 

Now  this  independent  young  lady  shall  be  at 
liberty  to  take  care  of  herself,  with  no  officious 
interference  of  mine ;  I  will  not  invite  her  to 
join  us  to-morrow  morning,  as  I  intended.  I 
wonder  if  any  horses  are  to  be  procured  that 
are  not  rats.  I  hope  Miss  Flora  knows  enough 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  167 

to  mount  her  pony,  for  I  am  sure  I  do  not  know 
how  to  help  her.  Whew!  I  hope  we  shall  meet 
with  no  disasters!  I  feel  certain  Little  Hand 
some  would  scream  like  a  sea-gull,  pull  the 
wrong  rein,  tangle  her  foot  in  the  stirrup  or 
riding-skirt,  faint,  fall,  break  her  neck  —  O  hor 
rors  !  Will  not  the  dear  old  Aunt  Tabitha  for 
bid  her  going  ? 

What  a  well-proportioned  and  ladylike  figure 
it  was,  now  I  think  of  it !  How  gracefully  she 
sat  upon  her  flying  Dobbin  ! 

Sept.  25th.  Rainy.  Glad  of  it.  Breakfast 
late.  Miss  Etty  did  not  appear,  having  been  up 
some  hours,  I  imagine.  What  for,  I  wonder? 
What  can  she  be  about?  One  thing  pleases 
me  in  her.  If  Aunt  Tabitha  wants  any  little 
attention,  a  needle  threaded,  or  a  dropped  stitch 
taken  up,  Miss  Etty  quietly  comes  to  her  aid. 
It  is  so  entirely  a  matter  of  course,  the  old 
lady  only  smiles,  but  any  service  from  Flora 
calls  forth  an  acknowledgment;  it  being  a  par 
ticular  effort  of  good  nature,  and  generally  the 
fruit  of  a  direct  appeal.  Miss  Etty  talks  more 
than  she  did,  too.  W'hile  I  am  talking  non. 
sense  with  Little  Handsome,  I  hear  her  amusing 
my  good  aunty,  and  I  catch  a  few  words,  her 


168  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

utterance  having  a  peculiar  distinctness,  and  the 
lowest  tones  being  fine  and  clear,  like  those  of  a 
good  singer  on  a  pianissimo  strain.  It  is  a  pe 
culiarly  ladylike  articulation ;  was  she  born  and 
bred  in  Ratborough,  I  wonder?  She  never 
speaks  while  we  are  singing.  Does  she  like 
music,  then?  I  asked  her  once,  but  what  sort 
of  answer  is  "  Yes ! "  to  such  a  question  ?  And 
that  is  all  I  elicited. 

Music  again,  the  forenoon  occupation.  Miss 
Flora  does  not  like  being  criticized,  I  find.  One 
must  not  presume  to  set  her  right  in  the  small 
est  particular.  Singers  are  proverbially  irritable ! 
I  am  not  certain  /  could  belong  to  a  glee-club, 
and  never  get  cross  or  unreasonable.  I  hate  to 
be  corrected ;  but  I  hate  more  to  be  incorrect. 
I  could  give  Canary  a  hint  or  two  now  and 
then  that  would  be  serviceable,  if  she  would 
permit  it.  I  have  no  right,  however,  to  take  it 
upon  me  to  instruct  her,  and  it  puts  her  in  a 
pet'  She  laughed  it  off,  but  I  saw  the  mount 
ing  color  and  the  flashing  glance.  I  am  an 
impudent  fellow,  I  suppose.  Honest,  to  boot. 
I  think  she  need  not  take  offence  at  what  was 
intended  as  a  friendly  help.  I  am  no  flatterer, 
at  least.  Really,  I  am  hurt  that  I  might  not 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  169 

take  so  trifling  a  liberty  in  behalf  of  my  favor 
ite  song.  I  '11  walk  off  as  often  as  she  sings  it. 
Can  her  temper  be  perfectly  good  ?  And  yet, 
one  could  not  expect  —  I  ought  not  to  be  sur 
prised.  Yet  I  can't  help  thinking,  suppose  — 
just  suppose  I  had  a  right  to  find  fault,  —  sup 
pose  I  were  a  near  friend,  —  would  she  bear  it 
then  ?  Supposing  she  were  my  companion  for 
life  —  Humph!  that  startles  one,  —  was  I  near 
thinking  of  it  in  earnest  ?  She  is  beauti 
ful  ;  I  should  be  proud  of  her  abroad.  But  at 
home,  —  at  home,  where  there  should  be  confi 
dence,  would  there  not  be  constraint?  Must 
no  improvement  ever  be  suggested,  because  it 
implies  imperfection  ?  I  hope  none  of  my 
friends  will  ever  be  on  such  terms  with  me ;  if 
I  am  touchy  like  a  nettle,  may  they  grasp  me 
hard,  and  fear  me  not. 

Sept.  26th.  This  little  sheet  of  water  in  front 
of  the  house  has  the  greatest  variety  of  aspects ; 
its  face  is  like  a  human  face,  full  of  varying 
expressions.  A  slight  haze  made  it  so  beautiful 
just  before  sunset,  I  took  my  chair,  and  put  it 
out  of  the  window  upon  the  grass,  then  fol 
lowed  it,  and  sat  with  it  tipped  back  against  the 
house,  close  by  the  window  of  one  of  those 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 


mysterious  rooms  where  Miss  Etty  immures 
herself.  I  heard  the  Canary  say  in  a  scolding 
tone,  "  I  should  think  you  might  oblige  me ;  it 
is  such  a  trifle  to  do,  it  is  not  worth  refusing. 
Why  should  you  care  for  him  !  " 

No  answer,  though  I  confess  my  ears  were 
erected  to  the  sharpest  attitude  of  listening.  I 
was  wholly  oblivious  of  myself,  or  I  should 
have  taken  myself  away,  as  in  honor  bound. 

"  Won't  you  now,  Etty  ?  I  '11  only  ask  for 
one  of  our  old  duets,  just  one." 

"  No,  Flora,"  said  Little  Ugly,  coldly  enough. 

"  Why  not  ?  "     No  answer. 

"  To  be  sure,  he  might  hear.  He  would  find 
out  that  you  are  musical.  What  of  that? 
Where  is  the  use  of  being  able  to  sing,  to  sing 
only  when  there  's  nobody  to  listen  ?  " 

"  I  sing  only  to  friends.  I  cannot  sing,  I  have 
never  sung,  to  persons  in  whom  I  have  no  con 
fidence." 

"  Afraid  !     What  a  little  goose !  " 

"  Not  afraid,  exactly." 

"  I  don't  comprehend,  I  am  sure." 

"  I  do  not  expect  you  should." 

"  I  never  did  understand  you." 

"  You  never  will."     Silence  again. 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  171 

Flora  tuned  up,  and,  of  all  tunes,  she  must 
needs  hum  my  song.  I  was  on  my  feet  in  a 
moment  to  depart,  when  I  heard  the  clear  tones 
of  Etty's  voice  again,  and  stood  still,  with  one 
foot  advanced. 

"  Flora,  you  should  sharp  that  third  note  in 
the  last  line." 

Flora  murdered  it  again,  with  the  most  atro 
cious,  cold-blooded  cruelty.  I  almost  mocked 
the  sound  aloud  in  my  passion. 

"  I  do  not  tell  you  to  vex  you,  only  I  saw  that 
Mr.  Ratcliffe " 

"  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  about  his 
opinion." 

"  I  knew  you  would  not  like  it,  if  I  told  you 
of  a  mistake.  But  I  supposed  you  would  rectify 
it,  and  I  should  have  done  you  a  kindness,  even 
against  your  will." 

"  And  I  to  hate  you  for  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  If  you  can." 

"  Indeed  I  cannot,  Etty,  for  you  are  my  very 
best  friend.  But  you  are  a  horrid,  truth-telling, 
formidable  body.  Why  not  let  me  sing  on,  my 
own  way  ?  I  don't  thank  you  a  bit.  I  had 
rather  sing  it  wrong,  than  be  corrected.  It  hurts 
my  pride.  I  think  people  should  take  my  music 


172  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

as  they  find  it.  If  it  does  not  please  them,  they 
are  not  obliged  to  ask  me  to  sing.  One  note 
wrong  can  surely  be  put  up  with,  if  the  rest  is 
worth  hearing.  I  shall  continue  to  sing  it  as  I 
have  done,  I  think." 

"  No,  —  please  don't !  " 

"  If  I  will  mend  it  when  I  think  of  it,  will 
you  sing  a  duet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  though  it  will  cost  me  more  than  you 
know." 

"  Poh ! "  And  Flora  sang  the  song,  without 
accompaniment.  The  desired  sharp  rung  upon 
my  ears,  and  set  my  nerves  at  rest. 

"  Bravo  !  Encore  !  "  I  cried,  beneath  the  win 
dow,  and  was  pelted  with  peach-stones. 

I  wonder  when  this  duet  is  to  come  off. 

Sept.  21th.  Have  not  stirred  from  the  house. 
But  I  have  not  heard  any  voice  but  Flora's. 
She  has  been  uncommonly  amiable  and  fasci 
nating,  and  I  —  am  I  not  rather  bewitched?  I 
cannot  keep  my  resolution  of  not  being  flirted 
with.  I  cannot  be  wise,  and  reserved,  and  in 
different.  Am  I  trifling?  Or  am  I  in  earnest ? 
Indeed  I  don't  know.  I  only  know  I  am  con 
stantly  at  the  side  of  Little  Handsome,  with 
out  knowing  how  I  came  there.  She  makes 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS. 


173 


me  sing  with  her,  ride  with  her,  walk  with  her, 
at  her  will,  and  as  if  that  was  not  enough  for 
one  day,  to  test  her  power  over  me,  to-night 
she  made  me  dance  with  her.  And  now  I  feel 
like  a  fool  as  I  think  of  Etty  playing  a  waltz 
for  us,  at  Flora's  request,  and  giving  me  a  long, 
serious  look  as  I  approached  the  piano  to  com 
pliment  her  playing.  I  could  not  utter  a  word. 
I  answered  her  gaze  with  one  as  sober,  and 
more  sad,  and  came  away  to  my  room,  to  have 
some  talk  with  my  real  self.  Now  for  it. 

Says  I  to  Myself,  "  A  truce  to  your  upbraid- 
ings,  you  old  scold ;  tell  me  at  once  how  you 
find  yourself  affected  towards  this  charming 
little  Flora." 

Says  Myself,  "  There  are  no  tastes  in  common 
between  her  and  me." 

Says  I,  quickly,  "  Music ! "  and  triumphed  a 
moment  or  two. 

But  the  snarling  old  fellow  asked  whether  I 
liked  her  singing,  or  her  flattery?  For  his  part, 
he  thought  we  both  liked  to  hear  our  own  voices, 
and  agreed  in  nothing  else.  Taste,  indeed ! 
when  I  would  not  let  her  sing  a  song  I  cared  a 
fillip  for. 

In  short,  my  self-communion  ended  in  some 


174  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

very  sage  resolutions.  I  feared  the  beautiful 
head  with  the  shining  curls  was  somewhat 
vacant.  And  the  heart,  —  was  that  empty  like 
wise?  Or  was  that  hidden  cell  the  home  of 
all  the  loveliest  affections,  the  firmest  and  pur 
est  faith  and  motive,  every  thing  that  should  be 

there  to  rule  the  life  —  and my  picture  on 

the  wall  ?  A  question  this.  —  Does  she  love  me  ? 
"O  yes!"  answered  vanity.  "O  no!"  said  good 
sense,  "  not  at  all.  If  your  picture  is  in  her 
heart,  it  is  one  of  a  whole  gallery.  Don't  be  a 
fop.  It  is  not  your  character.  Don't  let  Flora 
make  a  fool  of  you." 

And  I  resolved 

Sept.  27th.  A  very  dull  day.  "  You  are  as 
sober  as  a  judge,"  said  Flora  at  breakfast.  I 
caught  Etty's  eye,  —  but  it  said  nothing.  Aunt 
Tabitha,  who  yesterday  evidently  thought  me 
in  desperate  case,  and  once  inquired  about  my 
income  very  significantly,  now  suspected  a  quar 
rel  between  Flora  and  me.  I  was  embarrassed, 
and  overturned  the  cream.  "  No  great  loss," 
said  Etty,  seeing  that  I  was  chagrined.  "  As 
easy  made  up  as  a  lovers'  quarrel,"  said  Aunt 
Tabitha.  Silly  old  woman!  No,  silly  young 
fellow!  Flora  has  revenged  herself  on  me  as 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  175 

she  meant  to  do,  for  defying  her  power.  She 
has  turned  my  head  ;  made  me  act  like  a  sim 
pleton.  But  "  Richard  's  himself  again,"  and 
wiser  than  he  was. 

P.  M.  I  endeavored  to  talk  more  with  Miss 
Etty,  that  the  change  in  my  manner  might  be 
less  observed.  It  was  all  natural  that  I  should 
be  as  grave  as  a  judge  when  I  addressed  my 
self  to  so  quiet  a  member  of  society.  She 
seemed  to  divine  my  object,  and  sustained  the 
dialogue ;  I  never  knew  her  to  do  it  before.  It 
is  not  diffidence,  it  seems,  that  has  been  the 
cause  of  this  reserve ;  I  was  the  more  diffident 
of  the  two,  failing  to  express  my  thoughts  well, 
from  a  hurry  and  uncertainty  of  mind  which  I 
am  not  often  troubled  withal.  It  was  partly 
astonishment,  in  truth,  that  confused  me.  Lit 
tle  Ugly  and  I  actually  exchanging  ideas!  I 
shall  call  her  Little  Ugly  still,  however,  for  I  could 
not  make  her  look  at  me  as  she  spoke,  nor  an 
swer  my  wit  by  a  change  of  countenance. 

Sept.  2Sth.  Little  Handsome  cannot  be  con 
vinced  that  the  flirtation  is  over,  —  absolutely 
at  an  end.  She  alternately  rails  at  my  capri 
cious  solemnity,  and  pretends  to  be  grieved  at 
it.  I  can  see  that  nothing  but  my  avoidance  of 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

a  tete-a-tete  is  my  safety.  Should  the  sentimen 
tal  tone  prevail,  and  tears  come  into  those  beau 
tiful  eyes,  I  am  a  gone  man.  At  my  earnest  re 
quest,  (I  have  grown  humble  or  bold  enough  to 
ask  a  favor,)  Miss  Etty  has  brought,  or  rather 
dragged,  her  work-basket  into  the  parlor.  A  great 
basket  it  is,  so  great,  that  I  imagine  in  her  own 
apartment  she  gets  into  the  middle  of  it  bodily. 
I  sat  down  to  watch  the  motions  of  her  adroit 
little  digits  in  darning  stockings,  and  mending 
homely  garments.  I  imagined,  rather  than  saw, 
a  humorous  gleam  in  her  eye,  as  I  did  so,  and 
there  was  certainly  a  slight  contraction  of  her 
mouth  in  length,  as  if  to  counteract  an  inclina 
tion  of  the  muscles  to  move  in  the  opppsite 
direction. 

Flora  fluttered  about  the  room  like  a  bright- 
hued  butterfly,  pausing  a  moment  at  a  window 
or  a  bookcase,  or  resting  awhile  to  play  a  few 
capricious  notes  on  the  piano,  and  sometimes 
coming  to  view  Miss  Etty's  employment,  as  if 
it  were  a  branch  of  industry  she  was  unac 
quainted  with,  and  curious  about. 

The  maples  are  turning  red  already.  The 
setting  sun  threw  a  glorious  light  through  their 
tinted  foliage,  and  the  still  bosom  of  the  lake 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS. 


177 


reflected  it  in  a  softened,  changeable  hue  of 
mingled  crimson  and  silver.  Flora  was  stand 
ing  at  the  door.  I  somehow  found  myself  there 
also ;  but  I  talked  over  my  shoulder  to  Aunt 
Tabitha  about  potatoes. 

"  I  have  a  fancy  for  a  walk  round  the  pond," 
said  Flora.  After  a  pause,  she  looked  at  me, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  you  see,  you  mon 
ster,  it  is  too  late  for  me  to  go  alone  ?  " 

"  Miss  Flora,  I  will  second  your  wish,  if  you 
can  drum  up  a  third  party,"  said  I,  point-blank. 

Flora  blushed,  and  pouted  for  a  moment,  then 
beckoned  to  Little  Ugly,  who  disobligingly  sug 
gested  that  the  grass  would  be  wet.  It  so  hap 
pened  there  was  no  dew,  and  Flora  convinced 
her  of  the  fact  by  running  in  the  grass,  and 
then  presenting  the  sole  of  her  shoe  for  her  in 
spection.  Miss  Etty,  her  ill-chosen  objection  be 
ing  vanquished,  went  for  her  bonnet,  and  we  set 
forth,  Miss  Flora's  arm  in  mine  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  Miss  Etty's  in  hers,  save  where  the 
exigencies  of  the  woodland  path  gave  her  an 
excuse  to  drop  behind.  A  little  boat  tied  to  a 
stump,  suggested  to  Flora  a  new  whim.  In 
stead  of  going  round  the  pond,  which  I  now 
began  to  like  doing,  I  must  weary  myself  with 
12 


178  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

rowing  her  across.  I  was  ready  enough  to  do 
it,  however,  had  not  Miss  Etty  quietly  observed 
that  the  pond  was  muddy,  and  the  boat  unsea- 
worthy.  Flora  would  not  have  yielded  to  twen 
ty  feet  of  water,  —  but  mud!  She  sighed,  and 
resumed  my  arm.  I,  offering  the  other  to  Miss 
Etty  in  so  determined  a  way,  that  she  could  not 
waive  accepting  it,  marched  forward  with  spirits 
rising  into  high  glee  and  loquacity.  Presently, 
feeling  a  sudden  irritation  at  the  feather-like 
lightness  with  which  Little  Ugly's  fingers  just 
touched  my  elbow,  as  if  she  disdained  any  sup 
port  from  me,  I  caught  her  hand  and  drew  it 
through  my  arm,  and  when  I  relinquished  it, 
pressed  her  arm  to  my  side  with  mine,  thinking 
she  would  snatch  it  away,  and  walk  alone  in 
offended  dignity.  "Whether  she  was  too  really 
dignified  for  that,  or  took  my  rebuke  as  it  was 
intended,  I  know  not,  but  she  leaned  on  my 
arm  with  somewhat  greater  confidence  during 
the  remainder  of  our  walk,  and  now  and  then 
even  volunteered  a  remark.  Before  we  finished 
the  circumambulation  of  the  pond,  she  had  quite 
forgotten  her  sulky  reserve,  and  talked  with 
much  earnestness  and  animation,  Flora  sub 
siding  into  a  listener,  with  a  willing  interest 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  179 

which  raised  her  in  my  estimation  consid 
erably. 

And  now  that  I  am  alone  in  my  room,  and 
journalizing,  it  behooves  me  to  gather  up  and 
record  some  of  those  words,  precious  from  their 
rarity.  Flora  and  I,  in  our  merry  nonsense, 
had  a  mock  dispute,  and  referred  the  matter  to 
Miss  Etty  for  arbitration. 

"  Etty,  mind  you  side  with  me,"  said  Flora. 

"Be  an  impartial  umpire,  Miss  Etty,"  said  I, 
"  and  you  will  be  on  my  side." 

Little  Ugly  was  obliged  to  confess  that  she 
had  not  heard  a  word  of  the  matter,  her  thoughts 
being  elsewhere,  intently  engaged. 

*'  I  must  request  you  to  excuse  my  inatten 
tion,"  she  said,  "and  to  repeat  what  you  were 
saying." 

"  The  latter  request  I  scorn  to  grant,"  said  I, 
"  and  the  former  we  will  consider  about  when 
we  have  heard  what  thoughts  have  been  pre 
ferred  to  our  most  edifying  conversation." 

"  You  shall  tell  us,"  said  Flora.  "  Yes,  or  we 
will  go  off  and  leave  you  to  your  meditations, 
here  in  the  dark  woods,  with  the  owls  and  the 
tree-toads,  whom  you  probably  prefer  for  com 
pany." 


180  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

Miss  Etty  condescended  to  confess  she  should 
be  frightened  without  my  manful  protection.  — 
Quite  a  triumph  ! 

"  I  must  thank  you,"  she  said,  "  for  the  nov 
elty  of  an  evening  walk  in  the  woods.  I  enjoy 
it,  I  confess,  very  highly.  Look  at  those  dark, 
mysterious  vistas,  and  those  deepening  shadows 
blending  the  bank  with  its  mirror;  how  differ 
ent  from  the  trite  daylight  truth  !  It  took  strong 
hold  of  my  imagination." 

"  Go  on.     And  so  you  were  thinking " 

"  I  was  hardly  doing  so  much  as  thinking.  I 
was  seeing  it  to  remember." 

"  Etty  draws  like  an  artist,"  said  Flora,  in  a 
whisper. 

"  I  was  taking  a  mental  daguerreotype  of  rny 
companions,  by  twilight,  and  of  all  the  scene 
round,  too,  in  the  same  grey  tint,  just  to  look  at 
some  ten  or  fifteen  years  hence,  when " 

"  Let  us  all  three  agree,"  said  I,  "  on  the  28th 
of  September,  18 — ,  to  remember  this  evening. 
I  am  certain  I  shall  look  back  to  it  with  pleas 
ure." 

"O  horrid!"  shrieked  Flora;  "how  can  you 
talk  so!  By  that  time  you  will  be  a  shocking, 
middle-aged  sort  of  person !  I  always  wonder 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  181 

how  people  can  be  resigned  to  live,  when  they 
have  lost  youth,  and  with  it  all  that  makes  life 
bearable  !  Fifteen  years !  Dismal  thought !  I 
shall  have  outlived  every  thing  I  care  about  in 
life  !  "  So  moaned  Little  Handsome. 

"  But  youfmay  have  found  new  sources  of  in 
terest,"  suggested  I,  perhaps  a  little  too  tenderly, 
for  I  had  some  sympathy  with  her  dread  of  that 
particular  phase  of  existence,  middle-agedness. 
"  Perhaps  as  the  mistress  of  a  household " 

"  Worse  and  worse ! "  screamed  Flora.  "  A 
miserable  comforter  you  are  !  As  if  it  were  not 
enough  merely  to  grow  old,  but  one  must  be  a 
slave  and  a  martyr,  never  doing  any  thing  one 
would  prefer  to  do,  nor  going  anywhere  that  one 
wants  to  go,  —  bound  for  ever  to  one  spot,  and 
one  perpetual  companion " 

"  Planning  dinners  every  day  for  cooks  hardly 
less  ignorant  than  yourself,"  added  I,  laughing 
at  her  selfish  horror  of  matronly  bondage,  yet 
provoked  at  it.  "  Miss  Etty,  would  you,  if  you 
could,  stand  still  instead  of  going  forward?  " 

"  My  happiness  is  altogether  different  from 
Flora's,"  she  replied,  "though  we  were  brought 
up  side  by  side.  What  has  taught  me  to  be 
independent  of  the  world  and  its  notice  was 


182  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

my  being  continually  compared  with  her,  and 
assured,  with  compassionate  regret,  that  I  had 
none  of  those  qualifications  which  could  give 
me  success  in  general  society." 

"  Which  was  a  libel "  I  began. 

"  Without  the  last  syllable,"  said, Flora,  catch 
ing  up  the  word. 

"  At  any  rate,  I  knew  I  was  plain  and  shy, 
and  made  friends  slowly.  So  I  chose  such 
pleasures  as  should  be  under  my  own  control, 
and  could  never  fail  me.  They  make  my  life 
so  much  happier  and  more  precious  than  it  was 
ten  years  ago,  that  I  feel  certain  I  shall  have  a 
wider  and  fuller  enjoyment  of  the  same  ten 
years  hence." 

What  they  are,  I  partly  guess,  and  partly 
drew  from  her,  in  her  uncommonly  frank  mood. 
I  begin  to  perceive  that  I,  as  well  as  Flora,  have 
been  cherishing  most  mistaken  and  unsatisfac 
tory  aims.  My  surly  old  inner  self  has  often 
hinted  as  much,  but  I  would  not  hear  him. 
Etty  may  have  her  mistaken  views  too,  but  she 
has  set  me  thinking. 

Well,  you  crusty  old  curmudgeon,  what  has 
been  my  course  since  the  awe  of  the  schoolmaster 
ceased  to  be  a  sort  of  external  conscience  ? 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  183 

"  You  told  me  study  was  none  of  my  busi 
ness,"  says  Conscience,  "  and  a  pretty  piece  of 
work  you  have  made  of  it  without  me.  Idle  in 
college,  and,  when  you  began  to  perceive  the 
connection  between  study  and  what  people  call 
success  in  life,  overworking  yourself,  here  you 
are,  and  just  beginning  to  bethink  yourself  that 
I  might  have  furnished  just  the  right  degree  of 
stimulus,  if  you  had  but  allowed  it." 

Hark!  hark!  It  is  the  duet!  That  silvery 
second  is  Etty's.  I  will  steal  down  stairs,  and 
when  they  have  ended,  pop  in,  and  it  shall  go 
hard  but  I  will  have  another  song. 

Parlor  dark  and  empty.  I  fancied  I  heard 
Flora  giggling  somewhere,  but  I  might  be  mis 
taken.  Yet  the  voices  sounded  as  if  they  came 
from  that  quarter — and — and  I  am  sure  I 
heard  one  note  on  the  piano  to  give  the  pitch. 
Hark !  I  hear  the  parlor  door  softly  shut,  and 
now  the  stairs  creak,  and  betray  them  stealing 
up,  as  they  probably  betrayed  me  stealing  down. 
They  only  blew  out  the  lights  and  kept  per 
fectly  still.  —  Witches !  —  Donkey ! 

Etty,  your  voice  is  still  with  me,  clear,  sweet, 
and  penetrating,  as  it  was  when  you  talked  so 
eloquently  to-night,  in  our  dreamy  ramble. — 


184  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

What  if  I  had  early  adopted  her  idea,  that  with 
every  conscious  power  is  bound  up  both  the 
duty  and  the  pleasure  of  developing  it?  Might 
I  not  now  have  reached  higher  ground,  with 
health  of  body  and  mind?  Ambition  is  an  un 
healthy  stimulus.  A  wretchedly  uneasy  guest 
too,  in  the  breast  of  an  invalid.  I  would  fain 
have  a  purer  motive,  which  shall  dismiss  or 
control  it. 

Etty,  —  what  are  the  uses  to  be  made  of  her 
talents,  while  she  lives  thus  withdrawn  into  a 
world  of  her  own?  Certainly,  she  is  wrong;  I 
shall  convince  her  of  it,  when  our  friendship, 
now  fairly  planted,  I  trust,  shall  have  taken  root. 
Now  we  shall  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world, 

and  I  will  confide  to  her  my  —  my O,  I 

am  nodding  over  my  paper,  and  that  click  says 
the  old  clock  at  the  stair-head  is  making  ready 
to  announce  midnight. 

Sept.  29lh.  Capricious  are  the  ways  of  wo 
mankind  !  Little  Ugly  is  more  thoroughly  self- 
occupied  and  undemonstrative  than  ever.  I  am 
chagrined,  —  I  think  I  am  an  ill-used  man.  I  am 
downright  angry  and  have  half  a  mind  to  flirt 
with  Little  Handsome,  out  of  spite.  Only  Miss 
Etty  is  too  indifferent  to  care.  I  did  but  leave 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS. 


185 


my  old  aunt  to  Flora,  and  step  back  to  remark 
that  it  was  a  pleasant  Sunday,  that  the  sermon 
was  homely  and  dull,  and  that  the  singing  was 
discordant.  Miss  Etty  assented,  but  very  coldly, 
and  presently  she  bolted  into  an  old  red  house, 
and  left  me  to  go  home  by  myself.  When  we 
started  for  church  again,  she  was  among  the 
missing,  and  we  found  her  in  the  pew,  on  our 
arrival.  Thus  pointedly  to  avoid  me !  —  It  might 
be  accident,  however,  for  she  did  not  refuse  to 
sing  from  the  same  hymn-book  with  me,  and 
pointed  to  a  verse  on  the  other  page,  quaint,  but 
excellent.  After  all,  old  Watts  has  written  the 
best  hymns  in  the  language. 

Evening:      Without   choice,   I  found   myself 
walking    round   the   pond    again.     It   was    as 

smooth  as  glass,  and  the  leaves  scarcely  trem- 

| 
bled  on  the  trees  and  bushes  round  it.     And  in 

my  heart  reigned  a  similar  calm.  A  strange 
quiet  has  fallen  on  my  usually  restless  and  anx 
ious  mind.  I  thought  that  in  future  I  could  be 
content  not  to  look  beyond  the  present  duty, 
and,  having  done  my  best  in  all  circumstances, 
that  I  could  leave  the  results  to  follow  as  God 
wills.  At  that  moment  I  could  sincerely  say, 
"  Let  him  set  me  high  or  low,  wherever  he  has 


186  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

work  for  me  to  perform."  If  I  can  remain  thus 
quiet  in  mind,  my  health  will  soon  return,  I  feel 
assured. 

"  If!  "  A  well-founded  distrust,  I  fear.  This 
peace  must  be  only  a  mood,  to  pass  away  when 
my  natural  spirits  return.  The  fever  of  covet- 
ousness,  of  rivalry,  of  envy,  and  ambitious 
earthly  aspirations,  will  come  back.  Like  waves 
upon  the  lake,  these  uneasy  feelings  will  chase 
each  other  over  my  soul.  I  picked  up  a  little 
linen  wristband  at  this  moment,  which  I  recog 
nized.  "  She  does  not  deserve  to  have  it  again, 
sulky  Little  Ugly  ! "  said  I.  "  I  will  put  it  in  my 
pocket-book,  and  keep  it  as  a  remembrancer,  for 
—  I  am  glad  to  perceive  —  this  is  the  very  spot 
where  we  stood  when  we  agreed  to  remember 
it  and  each  other  fifteen  years  hence.  We  will 
see  what  I  shall  be  then,  and  I  shall  have  some 
aid  from  this  funny  little  talisman ;  it  will  speak 
to  me  quite  as  intelligibly  and  distinctly  as  its 
owner  in  a  silent  mood,  at  any  rate." 

Heigh-ho!  How  lonely  I  feel  to-night !  Every 
human  soul  is  —  must  be  —  a  hermit,  yet  there 
might  be  something  nearer  companionship  than 
I  have  found  for  mine  as  yet.  No  one  knows 

me.  My  real  self Ha!  old  fellow,  I  like 

you  better  than  I  did  ;  let  us  be  good  friends. 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  187 

Sept.  30th.  A  golden  sunrise.  How  much 
one  loses  under  a  false  idea  of  its  being  a  lux 
ury  to  sleep  in  the  morning!  Reclining  under 
Farmer  Puddingstone's  elm,  and  looking  upon 
the  glassy  pond,  in  which  the  glowing  sky  mir 
rored  itself,  my  soul  was  fired  with  poetic  inspi 
ration.  On  the  blank  page  of  a  letter,  I  wrote  : 

"  How  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  morn,"  — 

and  threw  down  my  paper,  being  suddenly 
quenched  by  self-ridicule,  as  I  was  debating 
whether  to  write  "  To  Ethelind  "  over  the  top. 
Returning  that  way  after  my  ramble,  I  found 
the  following  conclusion  pinned  to  the  tree  by 
a  jackknife :  — 

"  How  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  morn,  — 
When  to  call  'em  to  breakfast  Josh  toots  on  the  horn, 
The  ducks  gives  a  quack,  and  the  caow  gives  a  moo, 
And  the  childen  chimes  in  with  their  plaintive  boo-hoo. 

"  How  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  nenne, 
When  the  pot  is  a  singin  its  silvery  teune,  — 
Its  soft,  woolly  teune,  jest  like  Aribi's  Darter, 
While  the  tea-kettle  plays  up  the  simperny  arter. 

"  How  holy  the  calm,  in  the  stillness  of  night, 
When  the  moon,  like  a  punkin,  looks  yaller  and  bright ; 
While  the  aowls  an*  the  katydids,  screeching  like  time, 
Jest  brings  me  up  close  to  the  eend  o'  my  rhyme." 


188  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

And  underneath  was  added,  as  if  in  scorn  of 
my  fruitless  endeavor  :  — 

"  I  wrote  that  are  right  off,  as  fast  as  you 
could  shell  corn.  S.  P." 

I  suppose  it  is  by  way  of  thanks  for  my  hav 
ing  driven  the  pigs  from  the  garden,  that  I  find 
a  great  bunch  of  dahlias  adorning  my  mantel 
piece.  A  brown  earthen  pitcher!  And  in  the 
middle  of  the  dahlias,  a  magnificent  sunflower! 
It  must  be  my  aunt's  doing,  and  its  very  home 
liness  pleases  me,  just  as  I  love  her  homely  sin 
cerity  of  affection.  Who  arranges  the  glasses 
in  the  parlor  ?  Etty,  I  would  not  fear  to  affirm, 
from  the  asters  and  golden-rod,  cheek  by  jole 
with  petunias  and  carnations.  I  wonder  if  she 
would  not  like  some  of  the  clematis  I  saw 
twining  about  a  dead  tree  by  the  pond.  It  is 
more  beautiful  in  its  present  state  than  when  it 
was  in  flower.  Etty  loves  wild  flowers  because 
she  is  one  herself,  and  loves  to  hide  here  in  her 
native  nook,  where  no  eye  (I  might  except  my 
own)  gives  her  more  than  a  casual  glance. 

Noon.  "  I  shall  think  it  quite  uncivil  of  Little 
Ugly  if  she  does  not  volunteer  to  arrange  my 
share  of  the  booty  I  am  bringing,  now  that  I 
have  almost  broken  my  neck,  and  quite  my 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS. 


189 


cane,  to  obtain  it."  This  I  said  to  myself,  as  I 
came  into  the  house  by  the  kitchen  entrance, 
and  proceeded  to  deposit  my  trailing  treasures 
on  Norah's  table,  by  the  side  of  a  yellow  squash. 

"  Do  go  with  me  to  Captain  Black's,"  said 
Etty's  voice  at  the  side  door.  "  The  old  folks 
have  not  seen  you  since  your  return." 

"  I  can't !  "  said  Flora  with  a  drawl. 

"  Yes,  do !     Be  coaxable,  for  once  ! " 

"  It  only  makes  me  obstinate  to  coax.  Why 
not  go  without  me,  I  beg  ?  " 

"  I  am  no  novelty.  I  was  in  twice  only  yes 
terday.  Old  people  like  attention  from  such  as 
you,  because " 

"  Because  it  is  unreasonable  to  expect  it." 

"  The  old  man  is  failing." 

"  I  can't  do  him  any  good.  It  is  dusty,  and 
my  gown  is  long." 

"  It  would  please  him  to  see  you.  I  went  to 
sit  with  him  yesterday,  but  Timothy  Digfort 
came  in,  with  the  same  intent.  So  I  went  to 
church,  having  walked  in  the  graveyard  till  the 
bell  rang." 

"  Owl  that  you  are !  I  don't  envy  you  the 
lively  meditations  you  must  have  had.  Why 
don't  you  go  ?  It 's  of  no  use  waiting  for  me." 


190 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 


"  What !  Will  you  let  me  carry  both  these 
baskets  ?  " 

"  There,  put  the  little  one  on  the  top  of  the 
other.  I  don't  think  three  or  four  peaches  and  a 
few  flowers  can  add  much  to  the  weight.  It  is 
tiresome  enough  to  do  what  I  don't  want  to  do, 
when  it  is  really  necessary." 

And  Little  Handsome  danced  into  the  parlor, 
without  perceiving  me.  I  laid  a  detaining  hand 
on  Etty's  basket  as  she  put  herself  in  motion, 
on  which  she  turned  round  with  a  look  of  un 
feigned  astonishment. 

"  May  I  not  be  a  substitute  for  Flora  ?  "  I 
inquired. 

"  I  do  not  require  any  aid,"  said  Miss  Etty 
shyly.  "  It  is  not  on  that  account  I  was  urging 
Flora.  Please  to  let  me  have  the  basket.  —  In 
deed,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  you  should  trouble 
yourself,"  she  insisted,  as  I  persevered  in  carry 
ing  off  my  load. 

"  It  is  the  old  red  house,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  I, 
"with  the  roof  sloping  almost  to  the  ground. 
And  shall  I  say  that  you  sent  this  ?  A  view  of 
my  strange  phiz  will  not  refresh  the  old  people 
like  the  sight  of  Flora's  fresh  young  face,  but  I 
shall  go  in,  and  make  the  agreeable  as  well  as 
I  can." 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  191 

"  Are  you  really  in  earnest  ? "  asked  Etty, 
looking  full  in  my  face,  with  a  smile  of  wonder 
that  made  her  radiantly  beautiful.  She  turned 
away  blushing  at  my  surprised  and  eager  gaze, 
and,  taking  up  her  little  basket,  joined  me,  with 
out  a  word  of  answer  on  my  part.  It  was 
some  time  before  I  quite  recovered  from  a 
strange  flurry  of  spirits,  which  made  my  heart 
bump  very  much  as  it  does  when  I  hear  any 
unexpected  good  news.  And  then  I  dashed 
away  upon  the  subject  of  old  age,  and  any  thing 
else  that  came  uppermost,  in  the  hope  of  draw 
ing  the  soul-lighted  eyes  to  mine  again,  with 
that  transfiguring  smile  playing  upon  the  lips. 

But  I  was  like  an  unskilful  magician ;  I  had 
lost  the  spell;  I  could  not  again  discover  the 
spring  I  had  touched.  In  vain  I  said  to  myself, 
"  I  '11  make  her  do  it  again  !  "  Little  Ugly 
would  'nt ! 

She  answered  my  incoherent  sallies  in  her 
usual  sedate  manner,  and  I  believe  it  was  only 
in  my  imagination  that  her  cheek  dimpled  a 
little,  with  a  heightened  color,  now  and  then, 
when  I  was  particularly  eloquent. 

Introduced  by  Miss  Etty,  I  was  cordially  wel 
comed.  I  am  always  affected  by  the  sight  of 


192 


EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 


an  aged  woman  who  at  all  reminds  me  of  the 
grandmother  so  indulgent  to  my  prankful  boy 
hood.  The  old  man,  too,  interested  me ;  he 
has  seen  much  of  the  world,  in  his  seafaring 
life,  and  related  his  adventures  in  a  most  un 
hackneyed  style.  I  '11  go  and  see  -them  every 
day.  One  of  the  Captain's  anecdotes  was  very 
good.  "  An  old  salt,"  he  said,  "  once  —  once 

".     Bah,  what  was  it?     How  very  lovely 

Etty  looked,  sitting  on  a  cricket  at  the  old  wo 
man's  feet,  and,  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face, 
submitting  her  polished  little  head  to  be  stroked 
by  her  trembling  hands  !  This  I  saw  out  of  the 
corner  of  my  eye. 

Hark  !  Aunt  Tabitha's  call  to  dinner.  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  was  scribbling  such  nonsense,  when 
I  have  so  much  to  write  better  worth  while. 

12  o'clock.  The  night  is  beautiful,  and  it  is  a 
piece  of  self-denial  to  close  the  shutter,  light 
my  lamp,  and  write  in  my  journal.  Peace  of 
mind  came  yesterday,  positive  happiness  to-day, 
neither  of  which  I  can  analyze.  I  only  know 
I  have  not  been  so  thoroughly  content  since  the 
acquisition  of  my  first  jackknife,  nor  so  proud 
since  the  day  when  I  first  sported  a  shining 
beaver.  I  have  conquered  Etty's  distrust;  she 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  193 

has  actually  promised  me  her  friendship.  I  am 
rather  surprised  that  I  am  so  enchanted  at  this 
triumph  over  a  prejudice.  I  am  hugely  delight 
ed.  Not  because  it  is  a  triumph,  however;  — 
vanity  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is  a  wor 
thier  feeling,  one  in  which  humility  mingles  with 
a  more  cordial  self-respect  than  I  have  hitherto 
been  conscious  of.  I  can,  and  I  will,  deserve 
Etty's  good  opinion.  She  is  an  uncompromis 
ing  judge,  but  I  will  surprise  her  by  going  be 
yond  what  she  believes  me  capable  of.  I  never 
had  a  sister ;  I  shall  adopt  Etty,  and  when  I  go 
home,  we  will  write  every  week,  if  not  every 
day. 

But  how  came  it  all  about  ?  By  what  blessed 
sunbeams  can  the  ice  have  been  softened,  till 
now,  as  I  hope,  it  is  broken  up  for  ever  ?  Peo 
ple  under  the  same  roof  cannot  long  mistake 
each  other,  it  seems,  else  Etty  and  I  should 
never  have  become  friends. 

As  we  left  the  door  of  Captain  Black's  house, 
and  turned  into  the  field  path  to  avoid  the  dust, 
Etty  said,  "  I  do  not  know  whether  you  care 
much  about  it,  but  you  have  given  pleasure  to 
these  good  old  people,  who  have  but  little  vari 
ety  in  their  daily  routine,  being  poor,  and  infirm, 

13 


194  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

and  lonely.  It  is  really  a  duty  to  cheer  them 
up,  if  we  can."  I  felt  that  it  warmed  my  heart 
to  have  shared  that  duty  with  her,  and  I  said  so. 
I  thought  she  looked  doubtful  and  surprised. 
It  was  a  good  opening  for  egotism,  and  I  im 
proved  it.  I  saw  that  she  was  no  uninterested 
listener,  but  all  along  rather  suspicious  and  in 
credulous,  as  if  what  I  was  claiming  for  myself 
was  inconsistent  with  her  previous  notions  of 
my  disposition.  I  believe  I  had  made  some 
little  impression  Saturday  night,  but  her  old 
distrust  had  come  back  by  Sunday  morning. 
Now  she  was  again  shaken. 

At  last,  looking  up  with  the  air  of  one  who 
has  taken  a  mighty  resolve,  she  said,  "  I  presume 
such  a  keen  observer  as  yourself  must  have  no 
ticed  that  the  most  reserved  people  are,  on  some 
occasions,  the  most  frank  and  direct.  I  am  go 
ing  to  tell  you  that  I  feel  some  apology  due  to 
you,  if  my  first  impressions  of  your  character  are 
really  incorrect.  I  am  puzzled  what  to  think." 

"  I  am  to  suppose  that  your  first  impressions 
were  not  as  favorable  as  those  of  Mrs.  Black, 
whom  I  heard  remark  that  I  was  an  amiable 
youth,  with  an  uncommonly  pleasant  smile." 

"  Just  the  opposite,  in  fact,  —  pardon  me  !    To 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  195 

my  eye,  you  had  a  mocking,  ironical  cast  of 
countenance.  I  felt  sure  at  once  you  were  the 
sort  of  person  I  never  could  make  a  friend  of, 
and  acquaintances  I  leave  to  Flora,  who  wants 
to  know  every  body.  I  thought  the  less  I  had 
to  do  with  you  the  better." 

I  felt  hurt,  and  almost  insulted.  I  had  not 
been  mistaken,  then ;  she  had  disliked  me,  and 
perhaps  disliked  me  yet. 

"  It  was  not  that  I  stood  in  fear  of  your  sat 
ire,"  she  continued ;  "  I  am  indifferent  to  ridi 
cule  or  censure  in  general ;  no  one  but  a  friend 
has  power  to  wound  me." 

A  flattering  emphasis,  truly !  I  felt  my  tem 
per  a  little,  stirred  by  Miss  Etty's  frankness.  I 
was  sulkily  silent. 

"/had  no  claim  to  any  forbearance,  any  con 
sideration  for  peculiarities  of  any  sort.  I  am 
perfectly  resigned  to  being  the  theme  of  your 
wit  in  any  circle,  if  you  can  find  aught  in  my 
country-bred  ways  to  amuse  you." 

Zounds  !  I  must  speak. 

"  My  conduct  to  Flora  must  have  confirmed 
the  charming  impression  produced  by  my  un 
lucky  phiz,  I  imagine.  But  don't  bear  malice 
against  me  in  her  behalf ;  you  must  have  seen 
that  she  was  perfectly  able  to  revenge  herself." 


196  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

Etty's  light-hearted  laugh  rung  out,  and  re 
minded  me  of  my  once  baffled  curiosity  when 
it  reached  my  ear  from  Norah's  domain.  But 
though  this  unsuppressed  mirth  of  hers  revealed 
the  prettiest  row  of  teeth  in  the  world,  and 
made  the  whole  face  decidedly  beautiful,  some 
how  or  other  it  gave  me  no  pleasure,  but  rather 
a  feeling  of  depression.  My  joining  in  it  was 
pure  pretence. 

Presently  the  brightness  faded,  and  I  found 
myself  gazing  at  the  cold  countenance  of  Little 
Ugly  again. 

"  No,  I  did  not  refer  to  Flora,"  said  she.  "  As 
you  say,  she  can  avenge  her  own  quarrel,  and 
we  both  were  quite  as  ready  to  laugh  at  you, 
as  you  could  be  to  laugh  at  us,  I  assure  you." 

"  No  doubt  of  it,"  said  I,  with  some  pique. 

"  But  what  I  cannot  forgive  you,  cannot  think 
of  with  any  toleration,  is " 

"What?"  cried  I,  astonished.  "How  have 
I  offended  ?  " 

"  A  man  of  any  right  feeling  at  all  could  not 
make  game  of  an  aged  woman,  his  own  rela 
tive,  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  receiving  her 
hearty  and  affectionate  hospitality." 

"  Neither  have  I  done  so,"  cried  J,  in  a  tower- 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  197 

ing  passion.  "  You  do  me  a  great  wrong  in 
accusing  me  of  it.  I  would  knock  any  man 
down  who  should  treat  my  aunt  with  any  dis 
respect.  And  if  I  have  sometimes  allowed  Flora 
to  do  it  unrebuked,  you  well  know  that  she 
might  once  have  pulled  my  hair,  or  cuffed  my 
ears,  and  I  should  have  thought  it  a  becoming 
thing  for  a  young  lady  to  do.  ,1  have  played 
the  fool  under  your  eye,  and  submit  that  you 
should  entertain  no  high  opinion  of  my  wisdom. 
But  you  have  no  right  to  judge  so  unfavorably 
of  my  heart.  If  I  have  spoken  to  my  aunt  with 
boyish  petulance  when  she  vexed  me,  at  least  it 
was  to  her  face,  and  regretted  and  atoned  for  to 
her  satisfaction.  I  am  incapable  of  deceiving 
her,  much  less  of  ridiculing  her  either  behind  her 
back  or  before  her  face.  I  respond  to  her  love 
for  me  with  sincere  gratitude,  and  the  sister  of 
my  grandmother  shall  never  want  any  attention 
that  an  own  grandson  could  render  while  I  live. 
I  shall  find  it  hard  to  forgive  you  this  accusa 
tion,  Miss  Etty,"  I  said,  haughtily,  and  shut  my 
mouth  as  if  I  would  never  speak  to  her  again. 

She  made  no  answer,  but  looked  up  into  my 
face  with  one  of  those  wondrous  smiles.  It 
went  as  straight  to  my  heart  as  a  pistol  bullet 


198  EXTRACTS    FROM    THE 

could  do,  my  high  indignation  proving  no  de 
fence  against  it.  I  was  instantly  vanquished, 
and  as  I  heartily  shook  the  hand  she  held  out 
to  me,  I  was  just  able  to  refrain  from  pressing 
it  to  my  lips,  which,  now  I  think  of  it,  would 
have  been  a  most  absurd  thing  for  me  to  do. 
I  wonder  what  could  have  made  me  think  of 
doing  it ! 

After  Dinner.  I  hear  Flora's  musical  laugh 
in  the  mysterious  boudoir,  and  a  low,  congratu 
latory  little  murmur  of  good  humor  on  Etty's 
part.  I  believe  she  is  afraid  to  laugh  loud,  lest 
I  should  hear  her  do  it,  and  rush  to  the  spot. 
The  door  is  ajar  ;  I  '11  storm  the  castle. 

Flora  admitted  me  with  a  shout  of  welcome, 
the  instant  I  tapped.  Etty  pushed  a  rocking- 
chair  toward  me,  but  said  nothing.  The  little 
room  was  almost  lined  with  books.  Drawings, 
paintings,  shells,  corals,  and,  in  the  sunny  win 
dow,  plants,  met  my  exploring  gaze,  but  the 
great  basket  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  It  was 
got  up  for  the  nonce,  I  imagine.  Etty  a  rogue  ! 

"  This  is  the  pleasantest  nook  in  the  house. 
It  is  a  shame  you  have  not  been  let  in  before," 
said  Flora,  zealously.  "  You  shall  see  Etty's 
drawings."  Neither  of  us  opened  the  portfolio 


RATCLIFFE    PAPERS.  199 

she  seized,  however,  but  watched  Etty's  eyes. 
They  were  cast  down  with  a  diffident  blush 
which  gave  me  pain  ;  I  was  indeed  an  intruder. 
She  gave  us  the  permission  we  waited  for,  how 
ever.  There  were  many  good  copies  of  lessons : 
those  I  did  not  dwell  upon.  But  the  sketches, 
spirited  though  imperfect,  I  studied  as  if  they 
had  been  those  of  an  Allston.  Etty  was  evi 
dently  in  a  fidget  at  this  preference  of  the  small 
est  line  of  original  talent  over  the  corrected  per 
formances  which  are  like  those  of  every  body  else. 
I  drew  out  a  full-length  figure  done  in  black  chalk 
.  on  brown  paper.  It  chained  Flora's  wondering 
attention  as  quite  new.  It  was  a  young  man 
with  his  chair  tipped  back ;  his  feet  rested  on  a 
table,  with  a  slipper  perched  on  each  toe.  His 
hands  were  clasped  upon  the  back  of  his  head. 
The  face  —  really,  I  was  angry  at  the  diabolical 
expression  given  it  by  eyes  looking  askance,  and 
lips  pressed  into  an  arch  by  a  contemptuous 
smile.  It  was  a  corner  of  this  very  brown  sheet 
that  I  saw  under  her  arm,  when  she  vanished 
from  the  kitchen  as  I  entered;  the  vociferous 
mirth  which  attracted  me  was  at  my  expense. 
Before  Flora  could  recognize  my  portrait,  Little 
Ugly  pounced  upon  it;  it  fell  in  a  crumpled 


200  RATCLIFFE  PAPERS. 

lump  into  the  bright  little  wood  fire,  and  ceased 
to  exist. 

"  I  had  totally  forgotten  it,"  said  she,  with  a 
blush  which  avenged  my  wounded  self-love. 
Ironical  pleasure  at  having  been  the  subject  of 
her  pencil  I  could  not  indulge  myself  in  ex 
pressing,  as  I  did  not  care  to  enlighten  Little 
Handsome.  Any  lurking  pique  was  banished 
when  Etty  showed  me,  with  a  smile,  the  twilight 
view  by  the  pond. 

"  Do  you  draw  ?  "  she  asked  ;  and  Flora  cried, 
"  He  makes  caricatures  of  his  friends  with  pen 
and  ink  ;  let  him  deny  it  if  he  can !  " 

I  was  silent. 


THE    END. 


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